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015 863 3^o 





CORWIN CLAXWELL 



A DRAMA, 



CORWIN CLAXWELL, 



A Drama, in Five Acts. 



Composed by Cary Madison Dickinson. 



Dramatis Persona': 

EDWARD, a lawyer, with literary aspirations. 

RICHARD, in love with Jnlia. 

JUDGE CHRISTIAN, father of Edward and Pearl. 

U'lI.LI A.M, a companion <»l' lvlw;ird's. 

HORACE GOODMAN, father of Julia. 

HENRY, 1, 

DAVE, 1 Friends of Edward's 

FRANK. i 

GEORGE, [ pjiejj(i|g ^f Richard's. 
SAMUEL. I 

JASPER. Servants to Judge Christian. 
HANNAH \ 

PEARL, affianced to William. 
JL^LIA, affianced to Edward. 

Doctor. Jailer, and others. 



SCENE: St. Louis, Missouri. 
Time : .\bout fifteen vears after the Civil War. 



74353 



Libp«ry of Congress 

Two Copies Received 
NOV 12 1900 

Copyright entry. 

SECOND COPY 

DelivMod to 

ORDER DIVISION 

NOV 27 I90U 



Copyrighted Dec. 23, 1897 and Oct. 15, 1900, 

BY 

Gary Madison Dickinson. 






CORWIN CLAXWELL, 

A Drama, in Five Acts. 



ACT T. 
ScENF. — A Street. ( Enter Rioliard. ) 

R. — To love, and not l»e lo\ecl. is worse than deatli ! 
Can Fate and Nature be with purpose linked. 
To make my h'fe a misery and a curse? 
Else why with disappointments am I floodeck 
Sufficient to engulf a weaker man? 
Yet they but spur me on to fresher hope. 
And fire my will and heart with dauntless ^^eal. 
Turn as I may, e'er like a nemesis 
To thwart my every wisii, there find 1 Edward. 
Even when we together went to school. 
He captured all the honors easily. 
Then o'er my failures keenly twitted me. 
And took delight in stinging oft my pride: 
And when at play, no matter wli;it tlie game. 
He always was a lucky, easy victor. 
.And made my awkwardness and my defeats 
Main subjects for his jeers, his gilies, and jests; 
And since our manhood, time and time again 
Might I have pushed myself far to the front. 
Rut that, by aid of wit and gilt of gal). 
He has e'er been a l-jlock amid my w;iy : 
.And now, as if it all predestiiicd were. 
Comes he with favor high 'twixt me and Julia, — 
The only "woman I have ever loved : 
Without whor^i I can never happy be. 
Who, seeing his life's happiness at stake. 
Could but dare meet, to .«ave it. even death ? 
Then whv should I in silent sorrow nine. 



J<1 



Act I— Scene i. 



And suffer pangs of unrequited love. 
Without an effort mighty and supreme. 
To win the sweetest girl in all the world? 
No! I would be a coward to my conscience. 
A traitor to my heart, to sit aside 
And see another feed where T might graze. 
He hath a love for sport, a taste for wine. 
And if my brain its cunning not forgets. 
Round this Adonis I shall weave a wel). 
Whose meshes soon will hnd him easy prey. 
His path of pleasure I shall smooth to ruin! 
Then drink alone will sound his own death knell! 

Scene H.— Law Office. (Enter Judge.) 
—What ! ten o'clock, and Edward not yet here ! 
The papers to be written are untouched, 
And I nmst now. without them, go to court. 
Now what can this neglect of duty mean?^ 
Perhaps he is not well: I've noticed that 
He does not bear, of late his wonted mien. 
But seems absorbed in meditation much. 
As though there were some troulile on his mmd. 
He has. I think, too closely been confined. 
And with his studies too attentive been. 
And taken not that wholesome exercise 
That necessary is to rugged hcaltli. 
P5^,t yet— ah. what is this?^ Bah! poetry. 
And 'this is how he's whiled his time a-,vay.— 
In writing nonsense to a fooli-h woman. 
I marvel not that he seclusion ^ceks. 
And sighs and thinks, and thinks and sighs, alone. 
To be in love "s to lie in misery! 
Of all the fools with which this world's accurst, 
A love-sick person surely is the worst. 
(Enter Pearl and Julia.) 
P. — O, father, have you read •'The Key to Bliss ^"^ 
•Tis all the rage; or rather, 1 should say. 
It is the latest literary rage. 
j,l.-(iood morning, girls. An<l bow are you, M.ssjul.a.^ 
J _0 very well, thank vou. And bow are you!' 
Td.-I'm hale and hearty. (To Pearl.) No. my cbdd, I ve not 



/ As oft as 
V, — That is pa 



Act I — Sceue 2. 



I do not read such trashy, flimsy stuff. 
And would advise you from it to refrain. 
P. — But this is said to be a pure, ^ood book. 
The critics all are lavish in its praise. 
But seem to be at sea as to the author, 
Who screens his name under a nom deplume. 
Jd. — Under a nom de plume, eh ? I doubt not 
But that it is a rich and racy book. 
You should avoid it as a pestilence. 
For the impressions made by a bad l)ook 
Can never be effaced from any mind. 
J . — Now, Mister Christian. I will grant that's true. 
But no bad book can e'er attaint or hurt 
A truly good and morally-bent mind. 
By knowledge of the bad we right become 
by a knowledge of the good. 
part true, Miss Julia, and pari wrong. 
Those who possess a good and healthy mind. 
Together with a will that's strong and hnn. 
Have naught to fear from evil or from vice ; 
But with the weak and frail, it is not so. 
The present fiction is sensational. 
And caters to the social whims and tastes. 
"Tis like a fad — a fashion of a day. 
It springs up quick and fast as mushrooms grow. 
And into favor like a morning glory. 
Yet dies as soon by heat of criticism. 
But its pernicious odor lasts forever. 
-I will admit, for sake of argument. 
The present fiction is sensational. 
Yet it not only not immoral is. 
But it instructs, refines, and elevates 
Both the elite and common ones alike; 
And novv-a-days. to be quite up-to-date. 
With fashions and the styles must one keep /pace. 
And good acquaintance have with all the fads. 
And with the current well as classic works. 
Else one were as — well, as all out of style ; 
And to be out of style — well, is to be — 
Well, is to be entirely out of style. 
Jd. — I catch your jneaning sharp and clear. Miss Julia: 
And really, you should adopt the law : 



Act I — Scene 2. 



You'd make a lawyer, and an up-to-date one. 
J. — Well, some day I expect to marry one ; 

Then I'll be following a lawyer, sir. 

Instead of law. 
,J(i -- 1 have my (j.oil.is "I mil tliM, 

Because I think you'll "read the law to him." 

With many pointers. 
J. That will all depend 

Upon the circumstances of the case. 
Jd — A kind of circumstantial case, then ? 

J.- ^>- 

P. — O. father, where is Edward.-' 

Jd.— Really. 

I do not know where he can he; he's late. 
J. —He is not sick, is he? 
J(\ . Yes. he is sick. 

.\nd very, very sick. 
J. _ With what. I pray? 

jd._Do you not know ? for sure, you ought to know. 
j_ — Indeed, sir. I do not. Now. is he sick? 
Jd. — O yes. he has a very had — had case. 
J. • — Has he a doctor? 
jfl Yos. I think lie has. 

J. — .'\nd who is he? 

Jcl. — . Dan Cupid is his name. 

And what he can not c'tc, one must endure. 

Girls, you will please excuse me: 1 must go. 

Sit down and make yourselves as it at home. 

For Edward may at any moment come. 
J. Thanks, Mister Christian, hut we will not waif. 

We're anxious to get home and read our book. 

Tell Mister Edward we w^cre here. Good-day. 
p — Bye-bye. dear father. 
Jd Girls, good-bye ; good-bye. 

Miss Julia is a dashing, clever girl. 

And sweet and pretty as a ripe, red peach. 

She would inspire a statue most to life. 

Much less a man into a poet turn. 

And old as I am. I do feel that I 

Could write some poetry to her myself. 

But now. these papers — well, I will be damned 



Act I— Scene 2. 



If it is not enough to make one swear. 
But papers, or no papers, I must go. (Exit Jd. ) 
(Enter Edward.) 

E- — Shine on ! shine on ! thou rising star of fame. 
Until, with lustre of immortal hue. 
Thou art the brightest in the firmament 
"Of those great few who were not born to die !"' 
For such a goal who would not sacrifice 
The pleasures of this life: yea. life itself. 
For such, to battle goes the soldier brave. 
Nor recks nor cares if he be right or wrong. 
To aught else blind but glorious victory. 
And laurel wreath of an immortal crown : 
For such, the statesman, with his eyef to windward. 
E'er courts the poor and truckles to the rich. 
And disregards his country's common good. 
For transient glory and eternal name ; 
For such, the poet, author, painter, sculptor. 
Yea. one and all who aspiration have. 
With conscious pleasure, e'er like beavers work. 
For a niche in the galaxy of fame ; 
And I. who am in love with Nature's laws. 
And Nature's beauties — Nature's mysteries. 
Have set my sail upon a goodly sea. 
The breakers of satire are gently calm. 
The winds of criticism do sweetly blow. 
And fast my heart in joyous measure beats. 
As on the wave of great success T ride. 
But a few weeks ago. was I unknown. 
To-day, as Corwin Claxwell, the new author. 
The people all are praising high my name. 
And guess and wonder with amazement great. 
Who Corwin Claxwell really can be. 
And they can wonder, for within my breast 
A secret shall it l)e. till she is mine 
To whom my heart doth bow with love divine. 
( Pinter William.) 

W. — Good morning, Edward. 

E. — O. good morning. William. 

And may it always merry be. and good. 

W. — For one so lately sad and indisposed. 



Act I — Scene 2. 



You have a very bright and cheerful look. 
E. — Thanks. William, and I truly you assure. 

I never felt so cheerful and so good. 

Like as the earth from storm to sunshine. 

All nature gladdening with a sweet relief. 

So feel I freed from anxious, tense suspense. 

My looks but mirror right the joy I feel. 
W. — I'm glad to hear it, Edward ; but. I pray. 

Though good health doth a cheerful spirit wear. 

I understand not this excessive joy. 

A letter sweet from Julia. I suppose? 
E. —No. truly, truly. Though I do confess 

That only she could likewise me enthuse. 

Yet 'tis another cause — O. precious news 

Swells big my heart with boundless happiness. 
W. — Your pardon, please, if I presume to a.sk 

The reason for this very happy change? 
E. — O yes, but not just now; the time's not meet. 

However, when occasion aptly fits. 

Of my good fortune I shall you acquaint. 

But for the present, rest you with content 

That I am Inibbling o'er with boundless joy. 
W. — I shall most anxiously await the news; 

And since you wish the subject to be changed. 

How like you and how fare you with the law? 
E. — The law — I like it not, nor ever will. 

My father wishes me to follow it. 

But truly, nor my spirit, nor my mind. 

Is in the work. 
\V. Why. you surprise me much. 

Of all professions, Edward, think you not 

The law is greatest and most dignified? 
E. — In one sense, yes ; but in another, no. 

Though knowledge of it makes one broad and deep. 

Yet very dry the study is to me : 

Still, not so dry but it a relish hath. 

To be a lawyer of ability — 

With a good education for a base. . 

And with the languages acquaintance fair: 

W/11 read in science, literature, and law, 
^J- ^"^And able to interpret and decide 



Act I — Scene 2. 



Great (luestions from precedent, or without, 

With naught of hias, nor a point of gain. 

But with the ends of justice full in vit'w. 

Were much the highest honor to he won : 

But simply to hecome a pettifogger, 

Who studies to create advantages. 

And tricky technicalities invents, 

To misconstrue — divert the law's intent : 

To make the right as wrong — the wrong as right : 

Who has no conscience, knows no principle. 

But on the jury has a well-tried friend. 

Who, if he can not win, will disagree. 

Is to the high profession great disgrace ; 

Yet he who doth possess a genius rare. 

And tact and talent good, and skill profound. 

With knowledge broad of law, and Nature, too. 

When just his cause, and naine and fame at stake. 

(Yet lack of evidence to prove his cause). 

Doth by his grand, persuasive eloquence 

Appeal to reason for the justice due. 

And sways the jury to his every will. 

And hearers all to sympathetic tears, — 

For him, I have the greatest admiration. 

But still, the glory that attends such fame. 

Inspires me not to win the like success. 

W. — 1 can't see why : you are a scholar fair. 

With training good, and chance and prospects bright. 
And certainly would make a shining light — 

E. — No. no. not in the law : for to be frank. 
I do not have that gifted, innate love 
For it that drives — impels one to excel. 
Iri,>ejy calling, to attain success. 
Or 'hove a middle station to aspire. 
And .soar aloft among the brightest stars. 
One must throw all his soul into liis work. 
He must lie so imbued with love of it. 
That aught that hinders should but stimulate 
His mind and heart the more to reach his goal. 
He must possess a patience without end. 

'will of self-denial, self-control. 
And perseverance that no tiring knows. 



Act I — Scene 2. 



W. — Then may I ask. if you like not the law. 

To what profession doth your mind incline? 

And why you follow not its bent and aim? 
E. — We can not always choose as we would like. 

'Tis often said of those who genius have. 

That Opportunity doth make the man. 

But 'tis Necessity that doth unmake him ; 

Or rather, 'tis the needs and wants of life. 

For hare existence only, that prevents 

The greater number from their goal attaining. 

As circumstances alter not themselves. j^ 

Therefore, unto them must we shape ourslves : 

Yet. flowers fair in deserts oft we find : 

So wilt thus thrive one of surpassing mind. 
\V._Thcn you do not believe that quaint old adage. 

That every man is master of his fate? 
E. —No— how could I? Look back through history: 

A man of power and ambition great. 

Can many opportunities create. 

But poor and struggling individuals 

Must wait their turn for opportunity. 

In this, the land of light and liberty. 

Where Justice rules, and every man is king. 

Can one of talent and ability 

Most surely forge, though slowly, to the front, 

Put over all the world it is not so. 
W. — Upon one's country and vocation, then. 

It does depend. 
E. — Indeed, it so depends. 

There are some persons who must bow to fate. 

And others who their own success create. 

But. by the way. old chum, 'tis now some weeks 

Since we have had a jolly, high-old time. 

Continual work, you know, at anything. 

Is too liumdrum and too monotonous. 

With work and pleasure, lite should varied be; 

So meet me at the Social Club tonight. 

And we will while the hours in manly sports. 

With wine xnd sonir to intervene the time 
\V. — A happy thought. Good-bye. then, till tonight. 
E. — Good-bye, and do not fail the time to keep. 
.\x\d now to write a letter sweet to Julia. 



Act I — Scene 2. 



It seems. 1 know not how, some l)iisy-lK)(ly : 
Some prattling, tattling, spying newsmonger. 
Has told her all about my social pranks. 
I have a letter just received, in which 
She says my love for her is growing cold. 
And in the name of heaven, humbly asks 
How else it can lie, if these things are so. 
What ! my love growing cold for her ! Ye gods. 
If she but knew how madly I love her: 
How 1 divinely, truly worship her ; 
How for the time I anxiously do yearn. 
When we shall be as one. and she is mine. 
She would not trouble borrow, nor aught fear 
From any story that might seek lier ear. 
A woman's heart is tender, soft and sweet : 
Though easily beguiled, not always won : 
But if the means adopted are but meet. 
Not one escapes true love — not e'en the nun. 
An answer I will write in sootliing rhyme, 
.\nd though it ])e not faidtless or sublime. 
What woman doth not love sweet poetry? 
Now for the Club. The pleasures I have lost 
I will make up. and also add a few 
By way of interest. This night Til spend 
In joyous laughter and a merry time. 
With luscious drinks and other sweets betimes. 
And make the heavens echo my rejoicings. (Exit Ed.) 
(Enter the Judge.) 
Jd. — Well, five o'clock, and Edward still not here ! 
He'll get a lecture, and a scolding, too. 
When next I see him. (Reads address on letter Ed. left.) 

"Edward Christian." 
This will perhaps enlighten me a little. 
"My Darling" — no; another foolish letter! 
It is no wonder he neglects his work. 
When any one falls in love, and can't get out. 
There only are two proper remedies : 
And one's a speedy marriage — a sure cure ; 
The other is a speedy suicide. 
And that's no; always the worst remedy. ■ 
It is now time for home. He may be there. 
If not. then he had better have a care. 



Act i-r-Scene 2. 



Scene hi.— (Card Room of the Social Club. — Edward, Wil- 

. liani, John and others playing cards. ) 
E. — With this trick we win the game and drinks. 1 /J 

Here, waiter, bring anotheFTmnfuToFwine: l^^ ^ 

H. — Let's play another? 

E. — Wait, until we drink. 

H. — Your absence has not much impaired your luck. 
E. — Say rather, sir, not luck, but skill, our skill. 
H. — Skill, skill ! sayest thou? Pray, what do you call luck? 
E. — Come, gentlemen, you should not jealous be. ' ; 

Do not be sore : it may be your turn next. 
Remember, luck at times will conquer skill. 
H. — Thou art so lucky, when I play with thee. 
That I not only lose, but lose heart, too. 
E. — My friend, thy heart was lost some time ago. 
And I dare say, if she who did it win. 
Could now hear thee, she would most surely box 
Thine cars for saying that thou hast it yet. 
H.— If I cannot lose mine, thou canst not thine. 

And .so, the shot hits thee as well as me. 
E. — We play for wine and pastime, not for hearts. 
So end you this, for we but foolish be 
To kill our time with idle, prattling talk. 
And drink not this, in which much pleasure lies. 
Here, health, and wealth, and long life to us all. 
(Enter Richard.) 
R. — (Aha! a most auspicious time to strike! 

So thrives my purpose, that Old Nick himself 
Doth surely me assist. I'll speed him on ! ( .Aside.) 
Good evening, gentlemen; and sure, it seems 
From what I see, it is a pleasant eve. 
E. — Come, Richard, join us in a glass of wine. 

And make yourself right merry? 
R. — Centlemen. 

I hope that I am not intruding now 
Myself onto your gracious company. 
E, — O. no — we are but glad to have you here. 

To play and drink our healths in truest friendsbj/ip. 
R. —You know that it is rarely I indulge. 

But if it can our friendship more cement, 

I heartily now drink to all your healths. (All drink.) 

I am no judge of wine, but good it smacks. 



Act I — Scene 3. 



And I — I would another not refuse. 
E. ■ — Then fill again the glasses to the brink. 

Nor stop so long as there is aught to drink. 

For with excessive joy my heart is breaking. 

And ripe my spirits are for merry-making. 
R. — And with consent, in language proud to boast. 

I'll greet the quaffing with a fitting toast. 
H. — And I, if it can add to present pleasure. 

Will sing a drinking song of merry measure. 
E. — Then let us have the toast, and wine, and song. 

And stories good to strew the time along. 
R. — Most kind companions and devoted friends : 

(For such in heart I hold you, one and all — ) 

There's naught so good, so noble, as true friendship. 

It is the base of all society ; 

The greatest aim of all fraternities. 

It is a scale of honor, justly fit. 

That weighs aright our virtues and our faults, 

In troubles, trials, and vicissitudes. 

It is a healing and a .solacing balm. 

And to its power envy disappears 

Like vapors foul before the morning sun. 

Against ingratitude and selfishness, 

It is a goodly fort — impregnable. 

And is the only right and proper key 

To social happiness and good success ; 

And so, with faith and trust in one and all. 

To friendship, let us all together drink. 
E. — It was a pretty speech, — a fij'tting toast,— 

By a confiding friend and loyal host. 

I think. Sir Richard, that when next we meet. 

That we will book you for a toasting treat. 
R. — As it may please you, friends, whate'er you will, 

I'll entertain my best and drink my fill. 
E. — Henry, a merry .song by thee we'll hear. 

For merry music doth the spirits cheer. 

SONG. 

H. — Life is a journey^ rough or sweet. 

Just as we would it ma]<e : 
It is not lo:,g, but short and fleet. 
So wine, good wine we'll take. 



Act I— Scene 3. ^3 



Chorus. — Then gather round the festal board. 
And long as we have wealth. 
We'll while the time in sweet accord. 
And drink to each good health. 

Wine fires the blood, livens the sense. 

So be not shy or coy; 
It rouses fun and mirth immense. 

And all that we would enjoy. (Chorus.) 

Thus will we travel through this life. 

To pleasure will incline, 
.\nd bid adieu to the ills arifc. 

.\nd drink good, sparkling wine. 

R. — A very sweet and pretty song indeed. 

Now Edward, let us have a toast by you. 
For you can speak as only can a few. 

E. — I am most willing anything to do. 

To further our good will and jollity, 
Eut brief must he, and brevity, you know. 
Allows small sway for ornament and show. 

R. —Then give us, Edward, something short and sweet? 

H. — If sweet then must your subject be, there's none 
So sadly or so gladly sweet as music. 

K. The subject is too broad. — the time too short, — 

To be considered, and it justice do; 

But give me ear (if yours are musical). 

.And patience, too, I will it now review : 

O, music is the sweetest gift of all. 

And thanks to heaven, it is universal. 

For there is music sweet in everything; 

That is, if it can only be brought out. 

The brooklet has its murmur, low and sweet ; 

The winds, their whistle shrill: the sea, its loud 

And awful roar: the clouds, their terrible. 

Reverberating thunder, and the shell. 

Its sad and pitiful moan. And then to come 

To living nature, what does not express 

Its joys and sorrows by the aid of music? 

The mocking bird, the king of feathered songsters. 

Makes court and wins his loving m^.te, no less 

By music sweet, than doth the sighing lover. 



14 Act I — Scene 3. 



O, music is a universal language I 
.\n(I wlu) can from its power he exemjit ? 
There is no sorrow that it will not soothe. 
Nor any trouhle that it will not drown. 
What coward, nerved bj' patriotic airs. 
That will not fight his country's noble cause? 
What soldier brave, iiOt walk to certain death? 
And if you will excuse my merry ways. 
What man, inspired rnd thrilled by nuisic sweet. 
With charming women to entice him on, 
Could e'er resist the feeling of a dance? 
The world is full of music, sad and sweet. 
We're born with music, and we're reared with mu-;ic 
With music married, and willi music buried. 
And some say, music in the world to come. 
To music, there is naught to be compared. 
Not that with harsh, discordant sound, which grates 
Upon our ears, and tears our nerves to shreds. 
Like screechings of a saw when being filed. 
But music — music sweet in every sense. 
That, which as on the listful ear it falls. 
Doth touch the human heart in all its keys. 
Strikes all the chords of the affectons deep. 
And runs the whole, .gamut of emotion ; 
That which revives, inspires, and thrills the mind. 
The sense bewitches and the .soul entrances, 
.And sways at will the spirits and the feelings, 
.And fills one's being with ecstatic joy; 
Or. touching deep the chords of sympathy. 
Bows down the heart in sadness and in woe. 
And tears bringsforth like to a summer shower. 
O, naught do I love n\ore than music sweet ; 
And as true friendship, music, wine, — all three, — 
The subjects are of our gay minstrelsy. 
And speeches we have had, and songs galore. 
To entertain us. yet there's one thing more. 
Which is. as you can guess, another bottle. 
For we should not our fun and pleasure throttle. 
And I do hope that you will all agree. 
Then will the hours.. speed right merrily. 
W. — .\gain 1 will, and gladly too, but Edward, 
I pray you, please, do not invite me more? 



Act I — Scene 3. 15 



E. — What's that! — no more? O, come, old cliiini. now come. 

Have you resolved to quit so good a time ? 
W. — No, not so good a pastime to forego. 

But rather to imbibe with moderation. 

'Tis an indulgence that is good and pleasant. 

But if abused, becomes a beastly curse. 
E. — And so it is with all indulgencies. 

All pleasures carried to satiety. 

Become but evils of the worst degree. 

Such a resolve is good for all the old. 

But we are young, and while we so remain. 

Let us enjoy the pleasures of our youth. 

Mere, health, and wealth, and long life to us all. 
R. — And may we harvest all your wishes well. 
E. — How like you, licn's this wine? Is it not fine? 
R. — 'Tis very fine. 
E. — Aye, good and luscious as 

The kisses of a lovely girl, and like 

Them too. the more one gets the more one wants. 

Wine, sparkling wine, how well do I love thee ! 

The narrow-minded see thy faults alone. 

But to those who possess unbiased thought. 

Thy virtues, as the stars, are manifold ; 

And if with care and judgment thou art used. 

Thy blessings food for both the body and soul. 

When I am \ery sad, then drink I wine ; 

When 1 am very glad, then drink I wine. 

So let us bow unto old Bacchus' shrine. 

And drink another glass of sparkling wine. 

Come, Richard, come, why drink you not your wine? 
R. — I have already: see, my glass is empty. 
E. — To whom belongs then this? for I drank mine. 
W. — We both hold ours: it lies between you two. 
E. — Here are two glasses: one is full — one emi)ty. 

1 know that I drank mine. 
R. — Is not mine empty? 

Behold the glass? — my stomach holds the wine. 

E. — O, come, now. Richard, come, did you drink yours? 

R. — The glass I hold is proof enough for me. 

E. — But it is not enough for me. 

R. — 1 low so ? 

E. — How so? Now are von jesting or in earnest? 



i6 Act I — Scene 3. 



R. — Upon my honor, sir, I speak the Iriitli. 
E. — Your honor? If it is no better than 

Your word, it were not good to swear by. sir. 
R. — What's that you say? 
E. — You are not deaf, arc you? 

R. — No, I'm not deaf, nor either am I drunk. 
E. — Sir, how could you get drunk less you sli»uld drink? 
•R. — Now, really, what mean you by such talk? 
E. — I mean I saw you change those glasses there, 

And make with outward show, pretense to drink. 

When that you had not even drunk a drop. 

Such conduct is an insult to us all. 

And hollow mockery to friendship, too. 
R. — Your pardon, sir ; you are mistaken, sure. 
E. — No, I am not mistaken. I will swear 

By heaven, that I saw you change your glassy. 
R. — Then you will surely swear, sir, to a lie. 

(They fight. — R. stabs E. and escapes.) 
W. — O, Edward ! Edward ! are you hurt. Great God ! 

He's cut, and badly. Look you, how he bleeds ! 

Let some one go in haste for a physician. 

O, Edward? Edward? He's unconscious, boys 

Here, bring .some water quick. He opes his eyes. 

Look how he stares, as if the spell of death 

Were on him. God! but if he were to die! 

He moves. Assist me, boys, to raise him up? 
E. —Water? 

W. — He wislics water: l)ring 1i«h some quick? 

E. — .Air — give me air? 
W. — He wants more air — fresh air. 

Boys, press you not so close about him, please? 

Take off his coat. Great God ! another wound. 

My greatest fear is. he will l)leed to deatli 

Before the doctor comes. 1 warrant, l)Oys. 

As I know Edward, that the dirty dog 
Who did this deed, will live it to regret. 
H. — I hope .so, for it was a treacherous deed. 
W. — None but a coward, and a Ijeastly one. 

Would be so low to stab a helpless man 

O. doctor, is he dangerously wounded? 
Dr. — O no, boys, he's not seriously hurt. 

He should be taken to the hospital. 



l^s^ ^<^^' 



Act I — Scene 3. 17 



For he can be much better treated there. 
W. — Then let us take him there immediately ; 
But hold : Before we go, in confidence 
To all of you, I wish to speak a word : 
In fun and friendship was this frolic started, 
But it in trouble and in hatred ends. 
And ere that it is settled, I do fear 
That it will yet a sadder ending have ; 
Therefore, I pray you all, to let no word 
Escape your lips regarding this affair. 
But keep your counsel, and in silence wait 
The outcome of this most sad tragedy. 



l8 Act 2 — Scene i. 



ACT 11. 

Scene i.— (A Street. — Enter Richard.) 

R- — Full drunk ; aye, beastly drunk. I made him thus, 
I left him thus, and thus he shall become 
When time can serve my purpose opportune. 
A suckling babe is not more fond of milk 
Than he of liquor is, and time again 
He called for more, without his being urged, 
Till Nature, that such usage will not brook. 
Did lay him low, as helpless as one dead. 
Wlicn that he picked the quarrel to a fight, 
I sht)uld have killed him. but I did not dare. 
It is a month now since that fatal night. 
And not a soul there present have I seen. 
Nor heard a word concerning the affair. 
.\h ! hush it as they will, yet it will out. * 

For I my special purpose shall it make, 
(That is, the fact of Edward's drunkenness,) 
To tell his father; also. Julia, too. 
J\ly methods may not right and goodly be, 
Nor should they : for, when love's tlu- prize at stake, 
To custom nor to law doth honor bow ; 
Yet naught but truth 'bout him need 1 report. 
And that they can not honestly refute ; 
lint hold, my tongue. Iiis father comes this way. 

Jd. — Good morning, Ricliard. 

R. — Ah, good morning, Judge. 

Jd. — Ricliard, have you seen Edward recently? 

R. — No, I have not. Why, is he not at home? 

Jd. — No, he has not been home now for a month. 

R. — Indeed, is he so prompt and regular. 

That by his absenc*.. you should feel alarmed? 

Jd. — Well, he has never gone from home before 



Act 2— Scene i. ^9 



Witliout first telling me his whereabouts. 
And so, 1 fear that ail's not well witli him. 
Can you not tell me where he may he found? 

R. — (Alas, he does not know his wayward son. 

But gladly I'll acquaint him, full and well.) (Aside.) 

I beg your pardon. Judge : with all respect 

And honor high to you, excuse me, please ? 

For it has ever been a rule of mine 

To make report of neither friend nor foe. 

Jd. — So/yoiTJhaveJbeen, but your refusal doth 
But credence give unto my anxious fears. 

R. — Then as your friend, and likewise Edward's too. 
If you will not it any motive deem 
But good intention for your noble son, 
I'll tell you that 'bout him which you should know. 

Jd. — Agreed : and I will on mine honor pledge, 
I'll be as true to you as you to me. 

R. — Well, Edward, I am sorry. Judge, to say. 
Hath from the path of virtue badly strayed. 

Jd. — What mean you, Richard? — come, explain yourself? 

R. — Well, to be more explicit. — to the point, — 
He is more fond of drink than he should be. 
His appetite is not deep-rooted yet. 
But less he doth himself it soon restrain. 
'Twill be beyond his power to control. 

Jd. — Do you know this is absolutely true? 

R. — As true, sir. as it is that I can see. 

For only that I speak which I have seen. 

Jd. — O, God ! my son a drunkard ! — my dear boy. 

Whom I have taught and reared with strictest care. 
And he a drunkard ! Oh ! my heart will burst ! 
Why, he has seemed a boy so very gooc^d. 
And worn a frank and honest, manly air. 
That won its own regard ; has had a love 
For knowledge, and for study a desire 
That seemed all other pleasures to absorb; 
And has a will and mind so strong and bright, 
That all have given him the greatest praise. 
O, I cannot — I will it not believe! 
R. — Sir, you can but believe that which is true. 
No matter how severe mav be the sting. 



Act 2— Scene i. 



Jd. — Befciro, sir. 1 could even entertain, 

Much less helieve. a charge so infamons. 
You must give evidence. — proof absolute. — 
Beyond the question of the faintest doubt. 
R. — Well, neither l)y mine honor, nor to God, 
I swear, but by which cannot be denied. 
That when you see him next, (if that 1)C soon.) 
And he is not bad wounded by a stab. 
Which he received while being beastly drunk. 
Then call me an incarnate devil, sir. 
Incapable of telling tjfe^truth.^^^ c^-^^if 
Jd. — What must — what can I do, sir, to reform him? 
R. — I do not know ; but by means right or wrong, 

That which will sure effect a cure, i^ best. 
Jd. — I'll draw a picture of intemperance. 

With all its vices, wants, and miseries ; 
And then a picture paint of temjierance. 
With all its comforts, joys, and hapjiiness. 
Then ask him which is best, and him inii)lor(' 
To l)e himself all that becomes a man. 
Might that not move him to a belter life? 
R. — No, it were good, but not the proper way. 
Youth to advice lends only a deaf ear. 
But from experience le;iriis \-ice to fc^r. 
Jd.— What shall I do. then^ 

R. — Why. as doth the Lord. 

Who not from hate chastises us. but ]o\e. 
And with intent for our own future g(^o(l. 
Jd. — That is a good suggestion, sir. because 

Laws are not made for punishment alone, 
But with a motive for preventing crime : 
Therefore, if Kdward is tf) drink addicted. 
For his own good. I nnist bim harshlv treat 
And since you ha\e confided this to me. 
Can you not tell me where to find him now? 
R. — No. not exactly. When I saw him last. 
(About a month ago, I think it was,) 
He was then very drunk and fighting too. 
And both were to his sorrow, as you'll find. 
Jd. — .\n(\ where was this, sir? 

R. — At the Social Club. 

And there. I think, vou will now find bim sick. 



Act 2 — Scene 2. 



J(l. — Ricliard. for tliis implicit contidence, 

I tender you my thanks with all my heart. 

R. — Regard for Edward, and respect for you, 

Compelled me to divulge this sad. had news, 
With hope and trust, that by some sort of means. 
You may reclaim him, ere it is too late. 

Jd. — Again I thank you heartily. Good-day. 

R. — Good-day, Judge, and I wish you much success, (exit Jd. 
Another skein in that entangling web. 
Which, sure as fate, will be his earthly doom ! 
The clouds of disappointment, one by one. 
That have me hovered o'er so many years. 
Are disappearing by my fervent zeal. 
The sky of hope begins to brighten up. 
Life seems to me to be worth living now. 
And if I can but keep my courage up. 
My way will be victoriously clear. (Exit R. 



Scene II.— (A street.— Enter Edward.) 

E. —Though feeling well, I yet am very weak, 

So here I'll sit and rest a little while. 

The sky is clear, the sun shines bright and warm. 

The cool and gentle zephyrs constant b^low. 

And nature, all around, seems to exhale 

A sweet, and soothing, and refreshing spirit. 

And all in all, especially to me. 

It is a lovely and a pleasant day. 
(Enter William.) 
W.— O. Edward. I'm so glad to meet with you. 
E. _I vvas just wishing I could meet with you. 
W.— But not so much as I to meet with you. 
E. —How so. old chum?— has anything occurred? 
W.— Occurred? I am afraid that we are doomed. 
E. —What— doomed ! you say ? What do you mean by that ? 
W.— Have you. since being wounded, seen your father? 
E. —Why. no. 

W.— Nor any of the family? 

E. — Not one. sir. 

\V_ Then perchance we may be saved. 

!<: —What— saved? Why surely. William, we're not lost. 
W.— No. no. not lost : but I would have you know 



Act 2 — Scene 2. 



That well to all our escapade is known. 

And is a common gossip now become. 
E. — What! — common gossip? Ah. it cannot Ix". 

For none was there who could afford to prate. 

Lest he himself himself would implicate. 
W. — I do not care what anyone might do. 

But this I know, that it is surely known. 

For I have just received a note from Pearl. 

Inclosing also one to Pearl from Julia. 

Who. hearing first, it seems, then wrote to Pearl 

To know if it v\crc true, and s!tc .h turn 

Tnad wriilen nie. nnd asks an explanation. 
E. — Ye gods, I oft have heard that walls have cars. 

But in this case, they figure not at all. 

For sure, I think I know the villain well 

Who has so meanly all this trouble caused. 
A\'. — This is no time to ponder or surmise; 

W^e're brought to ba)', and we must fight or nm. 
E. — Then we will fight. 

W. — Well, what, sir. shall we do 

E. — Deny, it, sir. and swear our innocence. 
W. — C) no. for that would perjury be, and worse 

Than manly to confess the lesser wrong. 

Besides, they might have proof that's absolute. 
E. — In that case, self-defense, sir. knows no law. 

Remember. Peter did his Christ deny. 

When that he thought his life in danger was. 
W. — He could it not avoid, for he was fated. 
E. — If you are a believer, sir, in fate. 

Say we are fated, and that lo^e or win. 

We can lint only reaj) our destiny: 

Therefore, be calm, and firm, and weaken not. 

And we have naught to fear in our defense. 

So hie you quickly now to Pear! and Julia. 

.\nd tell (no more — no less.) this simple t;ile : 

That I was on a sudden taken sick ; 

That you did spend the time in tending me ; 

That we've been slandered, and are innocent. 

And vary not. for fear you should mistake 

.And contradict yourself, 
W.- — That may succeed. 

Rut I think- not, for snrelv vou do Isiiow 



Act 2 — Scene 2. 



23 



That trutli cannot 1)e downed, for good and keeps. 
It may be smothered, l)ut when least and last 
Expected, forth it breaks with all its force. 
And places shame exact where it belongs. 
What say yon, that we do in part admit 
The accusation, and for an excuse, 
We were with friends who were inclined to drink. 
And rather than to be imsociable. 
And looked upon as too fastidious. 
We merely joined them in a drink or two. 
But not more than discretion would permit ; 
That our regard for social etiquette 
Has wrongly been transformed to infamy. 
And that we have unjustly been maligned; 
And then, if they agree that we have erred. 
That we beseech forgiveness, and resolve 
To them a better conduct to maintain. 
K. — O. fiddle-sticks ! you make me laugh, you do. 
Are you afraid your honor to defend ? 
And would you blacken and besmirch your name 
By a confession? — courting what you fear? 
Plead never guilty, happen what it will. 
For to confess is to accept disgrace. 
And more than that you could not even lose. 
Unless it were to lose your liberty ■ 
Therefore, deny and fight the beastly charge. 
And should you win, (by how it matters not,) 
^'our censure will in time be mellowed down. 
Know you. did right and iruth always prevail, 
There were no need for churches, much less courts. 
And lawyers would without a calling be. 
\V — Well, as you say, but still I have my doubts. 
E. — Then banish them, and do you as I bid. 
But one tale tell, and that in a few words. 
And vary not, and all will then be well. 
When I have rested. I shall hurry home ; 
' There I'll await thy coming, and the girls. 
And rest assured. I'll nicely us acquit: 
So be you gone. 

W. Now truly, honestly. 

In such a mission 1 can have no faith. 
.•\ woman in good humor can be fooled. 



24 Act 2— Scene 3. 



But when she's mad, or e'en suspicious is. 
Ah. never — never; but I'll do my best. (exit VV.) 
E. — Ah, none but Richard, — the deceitful cur ! — 
Would me betray to father, or to Julia. 
However, I can now see through it all. 
He is, without a doubt, in love with Julia. 
And by such underhanded knavery. 
He hopes to prejudice her mind 'gainst me. 
The vile, and treacherous, and jealous villain! 
When I shall have regaine.d my health and strength. 
So soon as I have opportunity. 
I'll thrash him; aye, if needs be, I will kill him. (exit K. 



ScENK in. — (Home of Judge Christian — Enter Edward.) 

E. — And how are you. Aunt Hanna ? 

H. — Lord bless me ! 

If here ain't Master Edward — home at last. 

How do you do? And where in all tlic world 

Have you been all this time? 
E. — To tell the truth. 

I have been very sick. 
H. — Vou don't say. .son. 

And just to think, we didn't know anything 

About it ; no. nor even where you were. 

O. Master Edward, why did you not scntl 

Us word ? 
E. — I should, but knew I'd soon be well : 

And then I feared you might uneasy feel. 

And worry much about me. 
H. — (ioodness knows ! 

We couldn't have worried, son. more than we have, 

Eor we have had no peace since you've been gone. 

Your father's very mad. and .scolds us all, 

And's always finding fault, and not a thing 

That I can do will please him ; and sometimes. 

When he's alone, he talks much to himself; 

Tlicn tear> run down liis ciiccks, and poor old man. 

He weeps and looks as if liis heart would break. 

Miss Pearl has almost cried lier eyes out. too. 

O. Master Edward. I'm so glad you're back ! 

They're all so mad about your being way. 



Act 2— Scene 3. ^5 



That I was 'fraid to speak of you myself. 
But, Master Edward, sure as you were boru. 
I w-as afeeling awful anxious 'bout .you. 

E. Well. Hanna, I am sorry to have caused 

You all such needless worry. Here^take this. 

(Gives her money.) 

Should anybody call for me. you"ll find 
Me in my room, aresting — not asleep. 
H. — All right, sir. Thank you. Master Edward, thank you. 

(exit Hanna.) 
E. —God bless that poor old negress. '^hc has been 
As faithful as a mother could to me. 
My mother having died when I was smalt. 
I then was nursed by her. and though she's black. 
And been a slave. I love her most as much 
.\s any one could love his own dear mother. 
This news that she just told, disturbs me much. 
There's something brewing— something in the wmd. 
.\nd bad it augurs. To my room I'll go. 
And anxiously await the coming storm (exit E.— ) 
(Enter William. Pearl and Julia.) 
\V.— A funny joke, and so ridiculous I 
p_ —I'm sure that I see nothing, sir. to laugh at. 
J. —Nor I, for it no laughing matter is. 
\V.— No laughing matter? Why. the very thought 
Oi your believing such a flimsy hoax. 
Convulses me with loud and splitting laughter. 
p _lf we ourselves should suddenly disappear. 
And leave no news about our whereabouts. 
You'd think it were a huge joke, I suppose? 
\V._Until you did so, I would deem the thought. 
Indeed, a fancy most chimerical : 
Rut if you will forgive my cau.stic wit. 
There is no telling what a girl might do. 
p. —Your wit is not so caustic as your ways. 
And as for what a girl might ever do. 
Is naught to what a man takes right to do. 
W.— O come, now girls, dispel your pensive moods. 
^J^ben tune your spirits to a sweeter tone, 
For we have double-reason to rejoice, 
That Edward is again restored to health, 
.\nd foul-mouthed calumny has missed its ami. 



26 Act 2 — Scene 3. 



Let us be merry, for we have a cause, 

And being merry we can pick no Haws. 
P. — But where do they exist, howe'er we feel. 

Or glad or merry, 'twill them not conceal. 
W. — But it is nonsense, vainly to persist 

To quarrel over which dotii not exist. 
J- — Tis not that we believe these charges true. 

But "tis the cause for them we mostly rue. 
VV. — The cause for them you do not rightly know. 

But Edward will it you most plainly show. 

And when you will have heard it, I predict. 
You'll blame yourselves for what you now inflict. 
J. ■ — A censure sweet to us it then will be. 

To know from guilt that you are wholly free. 
W. — But now 'tis censure bitter, I perceive. 

To think you would such calumny believe. 
P. — Until your absence fully you explain, 

We must perforce some sadness entertain. 
W. — What need you more than proof and true denial. 

Against ail charges in a proper trial? 

And proof we have, yet still you strongly seek 

To mar our pleasure and your troubles speak. 
P. — If you as we had reason to be sad, 

Vou would not merry be, but very mad. 

.\nd out of humor, too, with us, I ween. 
W. — There's naught that we have done we wisli to screen. 

And till that we some breach of honor do. 

You should our actions wrongly not construe. 

The way to happy' be, the way to live. 

Is mend our faults, and others to forgive. 

But what is to be said, since you refuse 

To offer pardon, and the trutli aliuse? 

O, girls! girls! girls! ye pensive maids of folly, 

Why be ye sad, when you sliould be lint jolly? 
J. — Indifference did never pity move; 

So petulance doth but our true love i)rove. 
W. — .\ faith so constant, highly 1 commend, 

.'\nd to you both my sympathy extend. 

But this incessant peevishnes.*^. 1 tliink. 

Were 'bout enough to drive a Jul) to drink. 
P. — If you your faults would have us overlook. 

.And not a whimper e'en expect lo brook. 

Then verv sni;ill. indeed, vou rate our lo\c, 



Act 2— Scene 3. 27 



Which to all things, slinuld valued be above. 
J. — But then, what more could we from them expect. 
Since they our worth do slight and love neglect. 
W. — Although my cause is just, and reasons right, 
I must, I see, a losing battle fight. 
For whert to anger woman is aroused. 
By any notion that she has espoused. 
To even one convince, there's little hope. 
But vain it is, indeed, with two to cope. 
P. — .\ good surrender is without a doubt, 

To be preferred to an unpleasant rout. 
The point that we contend in this dispute. 
You have, not yet attemi)ted to refute. 
And till you do in earnest, — not in jest, — 
That of the argument we have the best. 
W. — Do not mistake that I accept defeat. 
For I surrender not. but just retreat. 
Till reinforced by Edward's ready wit, 
That never shoots but it doth make a hit. 

E. — Though Edward in excuses is not lack. 

He cannot truly change white into black ; ^^.^ 

And less his wit with truth he fortifies, 
We'll spring on him a very bad surprise— 
'Tis not the strike, you know, but the rebound 
Of what is shot that makes the deepest wound. 

W. — Claim what you will, and argue as you please, 
I'll try no more your tempers to appease. 
For spite of all that I might dp and .say. 
Yet woman-like, you still will have your way; 
But true it is, which you will surely find. 
That toward us. your treatment is unkind. 

p. — Not ].,jjif j-o bad as yours has been of us. 

W. — Now honestly, girls, let us end this fuss? 

P. — Had you been so. it would not have been made. 

W. — But that you'll find us so. I'm not afraid. 

J. — Then strong and true must be your evidence. 

\V.— Well, naught but truth.— plain truth.— is our defense. 

J. — But you have offered none, yourselves to clear. 

W- — But that we can, you need not have a fear. 

j_ — Why not your testimony then present? 

W. — 'Till guilty proved, we are but innocent. 

T. — That may be so in law. but no.t opinion. 



28 Act 2 — Scene 3. 



W. — O como, now girls, and do not heg the (|Ucstion. 
P- — ^Why should we charge you, sir, with such an act. 

Witliout some knowledge privy to the fact? 
W. — What you might do is not for me to state. 

Lest curiosity you wish to s^ate. 

But this I do with emphasis declare, 
^ It is not right, but meanly unfair^ ^ ^' 

(Which you, without a doubt, will learn now soon.) 

Our characters so basely to impugn ; 

At least on hearsay of some secret tale. 

That dare not out and publicly assail : 

But then, as woman is so greatly prone. 

Believing scandal on report alone. 

To argue any more, I must confess. 

Were silly nonsense and rank foolishness. 
P. — Do not you think, by such means to resort. 

As making of the women fun and sport, 

That from our purpose, you can us divert. 

Your mean, sarcastic words dp not us hurt. 

When cornered, it is always your recour.se. 

But we consider then, you know, the source. 
W. — By all the gods in heaven : also hell. 

.*\nd all the devils I may add as well. 

Was any patience e'er so sorely tried ? 

Or right and justice meanly thus denied? 

Could ever anything be more absurd 

Than judge a case before its being heard? 

Vet that is now what strongly yon affirm. 

But just and honest you cannot it term. 

Still, to convince you were too great a task. 

^'et in all fairness. 1 would like to ask. 

.Since yo'i so m-gently demand the proof. 

Then wliy. from gixing it. you hold aloof? 
J. — Our knowledge of the fact should be enough. 

. And he — uJio — toW — you of m y di inking — tb^», 

Did— te4+-yotr-of-mv trouble; did he not?- 

-Jt 1— thiittc-be-dTdr-S44=: 

W. — Poor ground it is. on which to make a bluff. 
P. — But backed by ])roof, then it is sure to win. 
W. — It is too weak, on which your faith to pin. 
J. — We cannot think so now. less you it quash. 
W. — An ea.sy thing to do. for it is bosb. 



(l 



Act 2— Scene 3. 29 



P. — If that is true tlien why not it attempt? 
W. — Till ready, we will treat it with contempt , 
J. — It is a lame excuse you have to offer. 
W. — But 'tis as good as any you have j^profifer. 
P. — If you were innocent, as now you claim, 

You would not evidence refuse to name. 

Nor rest under a cloud of hase suspicion. 

Rut willing be to state your good position. 
W. — What is the use of saying any more? 

I might as well a statue loud implore. 

.'\nd look for it my argument to heed. 

As with a mad and cranky woman plead. 

If there is any more that you would learn. 

Do not me question, hut to Edward turn. 

Who will you answer, in a proper season. 

■Ml questions that may come within your reason. 

If woman is endowed with such a thing. 
T. — That is a most ungentlemanly fling. 

Von rub the sore when you should plv the salve. 
W. — I think 'twere more than useless to be suave : 

The more I argue, worse do you become. 

So henceforth. I shall silent be, and dumb. 
P. — Sir. quarreling is not what we desire. 

So your sarcastic slurs yon need not fire. 

We do not ask but what is right and meet. 

Rut you will not the point at issue treat. 

Therefore, we do regard it very strange. 

That you the subject should avoid and change. 

And not an answer make to our complaint. 
J. — O. they are not so good as were a saint. 
P. — If they were guiltless, he would not decline 

The charge to meet, and actions to define. 
J. — The fact that he will not the charge now face. 

Is proof itself that they can have no case. 

The guilty only ever silent keep. 

For what we have not sown we cannot reap. 
P. — Suspicion will alone their honors smirch. 

And leave them lost and hopeless in the lurch. 
(Enter Edward.) 
E. — A pleasant and a merry day to all. 
P. & J.— O! here "is Edward! 
E. — And how are you, girls? 



30 Act 2— Scene 3. 



W. — Ye gods! ye gods! but this is sweet relief! 

I would dare battle even with the devil, 

But I shall never undertake again 

The fruitless, bootless, and the mootless task 

Of pacifying any angered woman. (Aside.) 
E. — Look out! be careful, or you'll hurt my arm. 
P. — O brother dear, excuse me. please, won't you ? 
J. — I beg your pardon, Mister Edward? 

I hope you will forgive my carelessness? 
E. — You both were full forgiven ere you asked it. 
P. — Why. brother dear, how did you hurt your arm ? 
E. — Well, if you needs must know. I'll tell you how : 

It was in most surprising manner done. 

Yet not so much as it was treacherous. 

Since I review the cause that led thereto. 
J. — And what, if I may ask you, was the cause? 
E. — The cause, if you would know, was but yourself. 
J. — I do not comprehend you. Mister Edward. 
E. — I do not mean you were so knowingly. 

But still, for sure, you were alone the cause. 
J. — Why. Mister Edward, you astonish me. 
E. — And I dare say, that when you will have learned 

The truth, you will yet more astonished be. 
P. — Please, brother, do not keep us in suspense? 

Re more explicit and explain yourself? 
E. — I shall, if you will bear me patience now. 

To your full satisfaction, and I hope 

With credit well deserved unto myself. 

Let us he seated, for. though feeling well. 

I have not yet regained my wonted strength. 

Now. to begin, the time I disappeared. 

I went to meet, accompanied by William, 

.\ certain well-known business gentleman. 

Who had conic all the way from \'nrk tn see 

Ale on some private and iniport.'int 1)usiness. 

I met him, and his good acquaintance made. 

And found him. to my good surprise, to be 

Not onl}^ a successful Inisiness man. 

But also a most noble gentleman : 

A man of culture — courteous, and refined. 

With knowledge broad of men and business, too. 

■\nd good address, and ccinversc rich and fine. 



Act 2— Scene 3. 31 



And withal, too, a good and royal fellow. 

Our business ended, he invited me 

To take a glass of wine with him. Now while 

I do not drink, I did not wish to mar. 

By the refusal of a social drink, 

A friendship and acquaintance doubly good. 

So I accepted, as did also William : 

And while enjoying thus his company. 

And listening and laughing at his jokes, 

His funny stories and his anecdotes, 

(Of which, abundance he appeared to have) 

Then several men, — a party by themselves. — 

Who had been drinking rather to excess. 

Began among themselves a general fight. 

Possessing their acquaintance. I of course. 

With others, acted as a peace-maker. 

And while endeavoring to stop the fight. 

I did receive two bad and ugly stabs. 

And slipping then, I fell and broke my arm. 

I did not think my wounds were dangerous. 

But my physician strongly did advise 

That I be taken to the hospital. 

Where, though most skillful treatment I received. 

I lingered quite a time 'twixt life and death : 

But having led a life of temperance^ 

And aided by a healthy constitution. 

I pulled through safely. 

W. He is doing well. (Aside.) 

p_ — Did not you say that they were friends of yours? 
!?_ — I thought so. else would not have interfered. 

But soon discovered, to my great surprise. 

.\nd almost, too, the forfeit of my life. 

That I had made an awful bad mistake. 
P. — Your wounds were not then made by accident? 
E. —Emphatically no! I said before. 

While I was trying hard to stop the fight, 

Some one behind me gave me two bad stabs. 

So m trbchind me gare-me t wo bad s ta bs ^_ 

Which I supposed were meant for some one else ; 

.\nd you can not imagine my surprise, 

When by my friends I rightly was informed 

Of who it was that tried me then to kill. 



32 Act 2 — Scene 3. 



It almost seemed beyond belief to me, 

Tbat one wbo bad from boybood e'er professed 

To me tbe truest friendsbip tbat could be. 

And for whom I bad almost entertained 

A brother's love, could do an act so mean. 

I was for any reason at a loss 

That he could such a hatred have for me. 

But when I learned tbat you bad been informed 

About my troid)le, then I understood. 

For with much clearness dawned on me tbe fact 

That it was this man's crazy love for you. 

And also his great jealousy of me. 

That prompted him to .so insane an act. 

So now you understand. Miss Julia, bow 

It was you were the prime but innocent cause 

Of all my trouble. 

W. — What a cJiarming tal-il (Aside.) 

J. — I surely must confess that I do not 
Yet clearly comprehend you. 

E. — But you will. 

For I shall treat ibis thing without a glove. 
And when again I have regained my health. 
I shall no mercy show this jealous villain. 
J- — Assuredly, sir. I know not whom you mean. 

F. — Then I will tell you who, but rest assured 

That I attach no blame whate'er on you. 

Now well you 'kuow. that you have many times 

Accused nie strongly of intemperance. 

Yet I was guiltless as a man could be. 
W. — Geewhiz ! but that one is a corker, sure. (Aside.) 

And he who told you of my drinking then, 

Did tell you of my trouble, did he not? 
J. — T think he did, sir. 
F. — What — you think so. eh?" 

Do you not know so? 
J. — Yes. to be distinct. 

It was tbe same man.' ■ ' ' ' ' 

F. — .And to be distinct. 

With you. but not uncivil in the least. 

"Twas be wbo tried to foully murder me. 
J. — O. Mister Edward, can it truly be? 
F. — Behold mv broken arm. then ask vourself. 



Act 2— Scene 3. 33 



Twixt him and me, wliicli one you would believe. 
J. — O. Edward, I'm so ver\'. very sorry. 

Forgive ma, won't yon — won't yon, Edward, please? 

(Julia cries.) 
W. — I thought that we would have some music soon. 

(Aside.) 
E. — Why bless yon. Julia dear, there's naught whate'er 

For you. my sweet, to ask forgiveness for. 
J. — O. I did not believe one word of it. 
E. — For which true faith I thank you very much. 
P. —Why did you not inform us. brother dear. 

About your sickness? 
E. — W^ell, my sister dear, 

I had a two- fold reason, doubly good. 

I did not wish my sickness to be known 

Till I myself the proper facts could give. 

For fear the trouble would distorted be ; 

And then, by keeping it a secret close. 

I wished to learn for certain and for sure. 

If this vile villain also was the one 

Endeavoring my good name to traduce. 
W.— Now there! did I not also tell the truth? 
P. — Ah. no, for not a thing would you divulge. 
W. — I told you we were truly innocent. 

Which was sufficient. 
P_ Sir, you were real mean 

To not give us an inkling of the facts. 

Because it would have very much allayed 

Our sufifering suspense. 
\V._- No, not a bit ; 

For if the explanation, full and true. 

Of Edward, will your anger not allay. 

An inkling only would have sure aroused 

Your mad and wrathful curiosity, 
p —Sir, had you told us all you ever learned. 

It were not much. 
\\'. — That's an unkindly sting, 

p — It is but what you are so wont to lling. 
W. — Now truly, really, and honestly. 

And earnestly, and most emphatically! 
Will you this silly quarrel never end? 
P. — No, not with vou, T fear. 



34 Ai't 2 — Scene 3. 



W. — I fear so. too. (.\si(lc.) 

B_v all that's fair now — I appeal to all. — 

Would it liave not improper heen for me 

To have reported e'en a single thing. 

Since Edward wi.shed alone to tell the facts? 
P. — O, Mister William. T forgive yon all. 
W.— And you? 
P- — Well, since it brother so desired. 

I too will you forgive — (till you 1 see.) (.Aside.) 
W. — All right ; a truce is prelude to a peace. 
K. — T have so long been in the house confined. 

That for the pleasures of the open air 

I'm sick in mind and heart. What say you all. 

We saunter out into the garden now. 

Among the flowers and sweet-smelling fruits. 

And full enjoy the cool, refreshing air? 
W. — It is a good suggestion. 
E- — Then proceed. 

And I will you in a few moments join. 
J. — I shall you very anxiously await. 
E. — I promise not to keep you waiting late. 

(Exeunt all but Ed.) 

So far 'tis well, but only well so far. 

This two-faced busines.s/I detest^ because 

A lie needs many more to back it up. 

And lying is not to my nature kin. 

I'.nt I'm in trouble deep, and must get out, 

.'\nd he who wins, by whatsoever means, 

I lis faults are lost by show of good success. 

( Starts to go out.) 
( Enter judge Christian. ) 
Jd.— O, Rdward? 

E. — Yes. sir. father. 

Jfl- — Wait a moment? 

I wish to speak with you. . . 

E. — How are you, father? 

Jd. — \\'i-ll. I am surely that which I do seem. 

And hope that you can truly prove as nuich. 
E. — I do not understand what you can mean. 
}t]. — Well, sir, I have abundance of good proof. 

That while you seem to be a gentleman, 

Vet privately you do belie the name. 



Act 2 — Scene 



E. — I do not care from whom ymi have your proof. 
And this I say, which I can truly prove, 
] am naught else hut what becomes a man. 

Jd. — Beware, sir, that you speak naught but the truth. 

E. —The truth — the truth alone is my defense. 

Jd- — Edward, do you drink any kind of liquors? 

E. — No, I do not. nor never have I, sir. 

Jfl- — Now, tell me. Edward, were you ever drunk? 

E. — Now, if I do not drink, could I get drunk? 

Jd. — Now answer right, sir. Were you ever drunk? 

E. — No. never, by the God in heaven, sir. 

J(\. — Then tell me where and how your arm was hurt? 

E. — I can with naught but justice to myself, 
But for the {)resent would prefer to not. 

Jd. — Did ever you attend the Social Club? 

'-• — I have attended several social clubs. 

Jfl- — You know the club I mean, so answer right? 

E. — I have attended it, but not to drink. 

Jd. — Were you not wounded in this social den? 

E. — I beg to be excused from a reply 

Till I can have a chance to prove my statement. 

Jd. — Sir, I will save you any such base work. 

O. Edward, I'm astonished ; aye, astounded ! 
That you should come to this, and yet so young; 
For it has been my sole and constant aim 
To make of you an honorable man. 
And raise you to the highest pinnacle 
Of my profession ; but alas ! to think 
Your bud of life has frosted been, and nipped. 
Ere it began to blossom ! Oh ! that you. 
Who have nor care nor trouble on your mind. 
Nor kijiown misfortu'ie. nor adversity, 
But have a future fair, and full of promise, 
1 That you could to so low a level stoop. 

As to besot yourself with cursed drink. 
While all around are men, and women too. 
Of blighted intellects and lilasted hopes. 
That are themselves a stronger argument 
.Against the use. and the abuse, of drink. 
Than words or language dare attempt to paint. 

E. — Father, you do unjustly censure me. 

Jd.— Sir. I not only censure you aright. 



3^ Act 2— Scene 3. 



l')Ut I would sentence you. had I the power ; 
F(>r I have ferreted out all the facts 
About the double-life that you do live. 
And found. — O. God ! to my great sorrow. . ! — 
That while I have you as an angel held, 
"*> et you are but a devil in disguise. 

E. — Father, you do me wrong ; indeed, you do. 

J^- — 1^0 not you contradict me. for I know 

Whereof I speak. I have discovered that. 
Instead of spending late your nights in study. 
You while the time in drunken revelry ; 
That you at cards, and other gambling, plav : 
That with lewd women you associate. 
And that you make the nights most hideous 
By boisterous and beastly deviltry. 

K. — I do beseech — I do implore a chance — 

Jd. — I will not listen! No! I will not hear 
Vou perjure your already guilty soul! 
My trust, my faith, and my good confidence, 
Have you abused with base ingratitude. 
Made, .your name a synonym of disgrace. 
And your good future scattered to the winds. 
Oh !. .that one .so bright, and learned too. 
Could be so big a fool : for you know well. 
That dissipation is the road to ruin, 
.And Nature will its penalty inflict. 

E. —Father— 

(Enter William. Pearl and Julia.) 

Jd. — Do not more call me father^ sir^ 

For till you fully have yourself reclaimed, 
1 shall disown you ever as my son. 
.\way! away! and come you never back, 
'J'ill you become an honorable man. 
P. — No! father, no! O. brother! please come back! 



Act 3 — Scene i. 37 

ACT III. 



Scene i. — (Street In* the Judge's house. — Enter Jasper.) 
J. — O lawdy. lawdy, hut I'ze tiahd. Dis po' 
or nigah ain't young any mo.' but w'en 
Ah heahs de banjo ringin'. w'y it sits 
Me all afiah, an' ah fahgits mah age. 
O yes, I does. I wuz jis down to git 
A little gin, an' down dah wuz a showman. 
Out fah ra lahk, an' aplayin' de banjo. 
Ah didn't like his highfalutin music. 
But w'en he played dem' ol' time pieces dat 
De dahkies use' to play befo' de wah. 
An' den annundah agin to pat de juba^ 
Mall haht jis agin to jump, mah legs commenced 
To move, an' 'fo' ah knowed mahself, T wuz 
Adancing like a little nigah boy. 
My, but 'e wuz ah dandy playah, shoah ! 
W}', 'e could jis make dat ol' banjo talk! 
De fastah dat 'e played, de hottah dat ah danced. 
An' ah wuz afeeling jis so good an' happy, 
Dat ah fahgot dat ah wuz eben libin'. 
Ah' fo' dis po' ol" nigah come to hisself, 
W'v 'e wuz all wo' out.' 

( Enter Pearl.) 
P. — Jasper? 

J. — Yes. Miss Pearl. 

P. — Have von seen Edward lately? 
J. — ' No, Miss Pearl. 

P. — Here, Jasper, take this note at once to Edward. 

Should you not find him, look for Mister William, 
And give it him ; and see. sir, that you do 
Not stop till you have one or other found. 
J. — All right. Miss Pearl. Is it important news? 
P. — Important? You could not have heard the news. 
J. —No, I have not heard any. good or bad. 
Y> — Why, Jasper, Edward has from home been driven. 
J — What !— Master Edward driven way from home? 
P. — Yes, Jasper, go in haste and look for him. 
J, — Wliat!— Master Edward driven wav from home? 

O. Lord ! O. Lord ! O. Master Master Edward, oh 

Excuse me, please, till I recover from 

The shock, and wioe my poor old weeping eyes. 

And Master Edward's driven way from home? 

Why, I have had my children sold as slaves, 

T^nt lle^'er felt I news so sad as this. 

For he's the lisht, and he's the happiness. 

Of poor old Jasper's life: for when he was 

.\ little boy. he was my constant care. 




38 Act 3 — Scene 2. 



And has in my affections deep so grown, 
ile seems to be a part of my own self, 
lie gives me money, and me presents too. 
And 'bout my health and comfort oft inquires. 
But more than all the ties that bind, he loves 
This poor old negro with a manly heart. 
O. find him, did you say? Why, bless your soul. 
This poor old negro never will come back 
Till he has found poor Master Edward. 

Scene ii.— (A Street.— Enter Richard.) 

R. — On, on, progresses my ambitious scheme. 
Faster than I had ever dreamed to hope. 
The crafty seeds that I've so deftly sowed. 
Have now begun to bear their deadly fruit. 
And ere another season by has passed, 
I hope to harvest my angelic love. 
O, every move has worked so like a charm ! 
His innocent old father, well deceived. 
Has thrown him out upon his own resources, 
And Julia, much influenced by this fact. 
And also my confiding news of him, 
Has wisely their engagement broken off. 
Till he can prove his truthful innocence. — 
A-fa#*- he can not honestly perform. 

herefore, I have him helplessly entrapped. 
From which he can not possibly escape. 
Like fools for gossip, e'en his staunchest friends 
Have now begun to talk about his troubles, 
.And look askance with a disdainful air. 
The which is done to every one that's down. 
Asr, to his passions he is such a slave. 
^ That like a rock arolling down a hill. 

He needed but a start, and he'll not stop. 

Till he has reached the very lowest bottom. 

I have him safely down, but lest he rise. 

T nmst now strike a blow in nick of time. 

For Julia's anger very soon may cool, 

So greatly strong is woman's holy love; 

So while advantage fits, I will to her. 

.\nd with my greatest skill, and sweetest way. 

Pour out mv flood of pent-up love, divine. 

With hope that Fortune will its sweetest smile. 

For still I feel that me it beckons on ! 

PoENK iTi — (.\ City Park. — Enter Edward and William/) 

E. — This park is surely very licautifvd. 

The endless chain of interwoven driveways. 
The lovely walks — variety of trees : 
The placid lakes, with fish, and boats, and swans; 
The hills and dales, and the artistic bridges: 
The springs, the fountains, and the shady nooks : 
.•\nd flowers rare of every hue and species, 
.And birds and animals from e\erv clime, 



Act 3 — Scene 3, 39 

Do all appear to make a modern Eden, 

Wlu'^ one with Nature may commune, and rest. 

And that repose and peace of mind enjoj-. 

That to the busy world is all unknown. 

Yet this inspiring scene delights not me. 

My heart's too sad, my spirits are too low. 

To be cheered up by aught in all the world. 

Until the sorrvv deep that bears me down. 

Is lifted from my over-trtoublcd "mind. 

W. — Come. Edward, come old chum, cheer up. cheer up. 
Wily, you are not accused of any crime. 
And Time, that everything aright adjusts. 
Will surely place you in your proper light. 
.\nd make your enemies your strongest friends. 

E. — 'Tis not the loss of father, or of home. 
Nor beastly lies of jealous enemies. 
That torture and oppress my weary soul. 
T^-ir I could bear a world of disappointment. 
With an impassive, cold indifference, 
Pecausc my future is exceeding bright. 
And glad would make the heart of any man. 
^"t when that she whom I do so adore. 
Did coldly lose her faith and trust in me. 
Ah, then it was my will and firnmess faltered. 
My spirits like a wilted flower drooped, 
-And life seems to have lost its cliarm for me. 

W. — Relieve me, Edward, she does not it mean. 

'Tis but a dress of show that wom^n doth _^ ^-^^ 
.Assumely wear to test her lover's trxitlTT 

E. — No. I think not. for time and time again 
She has accused nie of intemperance. 
But with sly Cupid's aid I sweetly plead. 
\nd calmed her ruffled spirit eood and well, 
^nt father's \\rong and strong arraignment was 
The straw that broke her lone devoted faith : 
■\nd now to arg'unent she will not listen. 
T'Vt claims, "in so niuch smoke must be some fire." 
y\nd if T come again. I must have proof. 
•\nd th^t. vo" know. T can not safely do. 
TTnless T should admit, at least in nart, 
Me,- former charges, which would her convince, 
^evop'l a d'Mibt, that Richard told the truth. 
"^nd T ;is siirelv lied. O. sir. the thought 
T'hat T shall n^'er regain her faith and love. 
T-T-iq me with deepest sorrow overndielmert 
T<'illf"d nil mv asriirn*^ion« cold and flead. , 
And most destroyed desire to longer live. 
^nd less I can some linuor soon procure. 
To drown mv tlioughts and soothe mv^ifl^diing brain. 
T will go p^nd. 

W. — I'll get von some at once. (Exit W.) 



40 Act 3 — Scene 3. 



(Enter Jasper.) 
J. — O. Master Kdward? Master F-dwardT^ 
E. — Well. 

Jasper, wliat brings you here? 
J. — O, Master Edward. 

I'v been alooking everywhere for you. 
E. — Well, Jasper, what can I now do for you ? 
J. — O, Master Edward, just as I returned 

To home today. Miss Pearl, she told me 'bout 

Your trouble, and she .said you'd gone away. 

O. Master Edward, I with sorrow was 

So deeply stunned, I thought I'd surely die. 

And sure as you are living. Master Edward. 

I'd just as soon be dead, if you go way. 
E. — I thank you, Jasper ; you are still my friend. 

And long as life exists, your friend I'll be. 

No, Jasper, I shall not now go away. 

I shall remain in order eood to prove 

To father, and those friends all dear to me. 

That I am not so bad as they might think. 

But all an honorable man should be. 

Did Pearl not send me any word bv yon? 
J. — O yes, sir, here's a note. I was so glad 

To see you. Master Edward. I forgot 

About the note. 
E. — It is a note from JuHa. 

"My Dear Affianced : 

.'Ml whom I have asked. 

Have told me you were truly innocent. 

Excepting Richard, whom I disbelieve. 

I loved before, but now I worship you. 

And I shall be a miserable girl 

Until I vow anew my love eternal. 

And you accept my humble, sweet forgiveness. 
Yours, and yours alone forever. 

Julia." 

Away ! you thoughts of griefly torture ! 
My heart's now swelling with a boundless joy! 

My brain is throbbing with ecstatic bliss ! 

Mv Julia — Oh ! she loves — she loves me yet ! 
(Enter William.) 
W. — Here. Edward, is your liquor. 
E. — Throw it away ! 

Eor I have here a stronger stimulant. 

That would a weary soul right merry make. 

And life instill into a heart of stone. 

If I was mad with grief. I'm crazy now 

With joy: and all these worldly scenes you see. 

That seemed so dreary, and so dearl to me. 

loom un now like an e^rthlv naradise! 
T — O Master William, don't plea«f": give it me? 
W. — All right, sir. Jasner : here, a big one. too. 
J. — Throw this away! — my. he don't know what's good 



Act 3— Sceue 4. 41 



W. — Now there, did I not say she would relent? 
E. — Yes ; hut I did not think she would so soon. 
W. — A woman's a mysterious heing sure. 

And hard to fathom, and the wiles and styles 

That they invent to conquer foolish man, 

Would outwit e'en the devil now himself. 
E. — But he who has not a true woman's love. 

Knows not the sweetest pleasure of this life. 

I rather would he doomed to Crusoe's fate. 

.\nd on an island ever dwell alone, 

Than here among these earthly angels live. 

And have not one's true love and sympathy. 

Why, e'en the thought of losing Julia was 

Enough to make mj' life unhearahle. 

Rut with renewed assurance of her love. 

It hut a rosy path of pleasure seems. 

Come, I can not await her fond eml)race. 

And seal anew her love with kisses sweet. 
Scene iv. — (Parlor in Julia's home.) 
J, — O. I'm so nervous, and so restless too. 

That for a moment 1 can not he still. 

This day has heen so miserably long. 

Night creeping comes with dreadful, ghost-like fear, 

And I've a feeling, awful and intense. 

That something terrible has late occurred. 

Or is to happen soon. O. Edward! oh! 

I wonder if my letter was received. 

If so, he would have answered long ere now. 

Rut then he may — no. no! not drunk: no no! 

He may be sick. No. no ! if that were so. 

He yet my letter would have answered sure. 

He was so bowed with bitter disappointment, 

Tie has perhaps gone silently away. 

"^^'ith strong intent of never coming back. 

The very thought's enough to break my heart! 

Oh !. . to think i could so foolish be. 

As by malicious news to thus be swaved. 

And crush the hopes of future happiness 

Of liim who would have died for lo^•e of me. 

Oh!. . could I recall tho^p bitter words! 
(Enter Julia's father.^ 
V. —Now what's the trouble, daughter? Why these tears' 
T — O. iust a little sad news from a friend. 
F. — Ts it n lady or a gentleman? 
J. — O. father dear, excu-^e nic. will von please? 

For I'm too sad. too ill to talk todav. 
F. — You must a little listen then to me. 

For I have news of interest to you. 
J, — AVhy surely. Anther dear l^'tt plea'^e. be brief. 

For I am suffering much from nervousness. 
F. — T qliall ])e vcrv brief, and also hope 

That vou will be as quick to heed my warning. 



42 Act 3 — Sceue 4. 



Now, Edward calls here often, does he not ? 

J- — He did till recently, but does not now. 

H. — He must entirely cease his visits here, 

For 1 have learned from good authority, ' 
That he is not so good as what he seems, 
And you must not attentions e'er receive 
From any man who's not a gentleman. 

J. — I also, father, several times did hear 

The same reports, and thinking they were true. 

Refused then to receive him any more. 

But since have found this news to be untrue. 

Aye, absolutely false ; therefore, I think 

I owe him surely an apology. 

F. — Look here, my daughter, listen now to me. 
For Edward's vices are a common talk. 
And I am told, by way of confidence. 
That if I wish your welfare to protect, 
I should inform you now of Edward's conduct. 
Now marriage is the greatest step in life. 
For man or woman, for on it depends 
The greatest happiness or misery. 
As may the choice be made. So mark me well. 
Before that step is to be taken on. 
One should reflect and much investigate. 
And weigh the consequences, good and bad, 
That such a consummation might entail. 
In love affairs 'tis easy for a girl 
To be deceived, for to the smiles and guiles 
Of a deceitful man, she is too nrone. 
T do not doubt but Edward has explained 
That he 'is innocent of any lilame, 
^ut T most certainly can nrove his guilt. 

J. — T conmrehend vour thoughts and feelings well. 
And have you e'er obeyed: but in this case, 
'Tis yon — not T — who have so been deceived: 
''lit still, to make it certain and beyond 
A doul)t, we'll weigli oii.r proof, if now you like. 

F. — A^'hat need vou more, to surelv prove his guilt, 
Tlian that his father.- — hard as 'twas to do, — 
Tins turned him, like a dog, out on the world? 

J. — N'our ])ardon. please, but that is not sure proof. 
Tlis fathei-, like yourself, has befu deceived. 
T too at first was cunningly misled 
^'v Richard, who is not to be belie\'ed : 
For T have fullv all these stories probed. 
And found that thev are but a pack of lies: 
Au(\ 'lis a shame that one so innocent. 
Should be with s'lch unrighteous coiuluct charged. 

F. —If he is such a model of a man 

As vou .'ire wont to think, then tell me wh^' 
He could not make his father so think, too? 



Act 3 — Scene 4. 43 



lie is a lawyer, and I will admit. 
A smart one, quick to see and to api)ly 
The weak points of opponents to his ends. 
"^'et he, with all his hrilliancy and skill 
Could not. by any means he couid devise. 
Himself of these unmanly charges clear: 
And yet, — this staring you full in the face, — 
Vou still persist that he is innocent. 
• — Father, in order to explain, suppose 
That some designing vdlian, under guise 
Of friendship, and in confidence to you, 
Should hint that I were not angelic pure. 
Would you be so inhuman, so unjust. 
As me to coldly drive away from home, 
, Without first knowing it were surely true? 
Yet that is just what Edward's father did. 
I know, for I was there and saw it all. 
Poor Edward, on his knees begged for a chance 
To be permitted to defend himself. 
But no! his tather, Itlinded by the lies 
Of Richard, would not let him speak a word. 
I too believed his father was then right. 
And so discarded him from that time on. 
Rut since have been most thoroughly convinced, 
Ry those whose honor can not be denied. 
That Edward is an honorable man. 
—My darling child, I'm sorry much, indeed. 
To think that wdiat I've said is not enough 
To prove to you that Edward is not right. 
I could give you more ample evidence. 
Rut foul — too foul it is for you to bear. 
Suffice to say, he is unworthy you ; 
So do not let blind love lead you astray : 
Risk not your happiness on foolish chance, 
Rut build your welfare on a solid plane. 
Too short is life when it is goodly spent. 
Rut much too lone when it's to sorrow bent. 
So be YO:i not a silly, foolish girl, 
Rut firm, strong-minded, proud yet humble be: 
Thv worth hold priceless, let thy hopes soar high. 
Yet higher not than honor well deserved. 
Among your suitors there are gentlemen 
Most honorable, and most worths, too : 
T'ut I do charse you, think no more of Edward. 
Henceforth, you must to him a stranger be. 
— T)cr\r father, jn^t a word before you go: 
Tf that you wish mv life to haony be. 
T ask vou, dr. vou think it "ossible. 
Less I myself can me a husband choose? 
'. — You can. mv daughter, as vou like, so long 
.\s vou do choose one who is worthy you. 



44 Act 3 — Sceue 4. 



J- — I would not marry one who was not such! 

He vyhom I love is a true gentleman — 

Ambitious, brilliant, handsome and refined ; 

A very model of ideal manhood. 

And less I have the right to marry him. 

Then I shall never marry. 
F- — Mean you. Edward? 

J. —I do, sir. 
F. — What! to throw your life ;iway 

Upon a drunkard ! and a profiigate ! 

A beastly and licentious libertine ! 

O, God ! no ; I would rather see you dead ! 

Again I say. if you heed not my warning, 

But do. in spite of me. then marry him. 

I never want to see your face again. (Exit father.) 
J. —The bell !— the bell! O, it must Edward be ! 

At last he's come ! The thought alone transforms 

My grief to joy ! If I did pierce his heart 

With bitterest words and acts, to make amends. 

I'll heal the wounds with sweetest words and love. 

No more shall he entreat for one wee kiss, 

But boldly I will shower them on him ; 

No more 'twill be a gentle soft embrace. 

But I will hug him good with all my strength ; 

Aye, too, a thousand ways I'll try to prove 

My faithful, boundless and eternal love. 
(Servant brings in card.) 

All) it is Richard! Show him in. The cur, 

I'll gentle be, and kind, to draw him out; 

That done, then I will prol)e him to the quick. 
(Enter Richard. ) 
R. — Ciood evening to Miss Julia. 
J. — Mister Richard- 

Sir, have a seat? And how are you this eve? 
R. — O. I am hearty, but as ever — sad. 
J. — Indeed, sir. you do much astonish me. 

You've always been so cool and self-possessed. 

I thought that you were hanny and contented. 
R. — .'\h, hanpy and contented ! No. indeed. 

Why. I've not seen a happy day for years ; 

Nay. not alone seen not a hapiiv dav. 

Rut suffered all the tortures of a mind 

That fears it has the ioys of heaven lost. 
J. — O, Mister Richard, whv. how strange von talk. 
R. — ^'es. strange it is to you. but not to me. 

I have not told, nor even hinted it. 

^•^n have in silence and in secret suffered. 

Till I can not it any longer bear. 

^nt must the cause of my great so'-rnw tell. 

Which vou alonejliave] the power/ to cure. 
J. — O, Mister Richard, stranger still you talk. 



Act 3— Scene 4. 45 



But I do hope it will nu more be strange. 

H. — Miss Julia, O believe, for from my heart 
1 sjjcak, that ever since my boyhoiul days, 
Vou have to me a peerless magnet been, 
And had o'er me an influence and control. 
Which I could not, nor wished I to resist. 
It has so goodly seemed, and still so seems, 
That every pleasure, passion and desire 
In me embodied, to yourself is drawn. 
And that the rest of all the world's a blank. 
Except the worship and the love of you. 

J. — Why, Mister Richard, 1 am much surprised 
That in this manner you should me address. 
True, you have called to see me many times, 
And in good converse vve did pass the time, 
But you appeared to be so much reser\-ed. 
And so indifferent to press your suit. 
That I have never had the slightest thought 
That you held aught for me but goodly friendship. 

R. — I was afraid to speak — afraid to show 
You any act or sign whate'er of love. 
For fear I might your friendship also lose. 
Which has alone a pleasure been divine. 
I know I'm not endowed with handsome looks. 
Nor am with grace of action passing well, 
Nor musical, nor sweetly sentimental. 
So I could not thy matchless beauty storm 
With weapons such as lovers most do ttse. 
But have been forced to thus conceal my love. 
And Ijide my time, with sweet and pleasing hope 
That you might yet my better worth perceive. 
And learn, that though I may not faultless be. 
Yet not to dissipation am I given. 
That pure and stainless is my character, 
And I a good and honorable man. 
And therefore, worthy even to aspire 
To your angelic love. 

J. — ' " Mr. Richard, 

1 full appreciate your qualities. 
Anil have esteemed and held your friendship dear, 
l-ut to accept your love's impossible, 
For yon should know, without my telling you, 
My heart is in the keeping of another. 

R. — "ut not beyond redemption, I do hope. 

J. — Nay. vn\ if be who has its goodly care 
Should fail its value to appreciate. 
And it neglect for things that better please. 

R. — Tf that be so. I still can live in hope. 

For I. bv all the hosts in heaven swear, 
^nd time will -^urelv. trulv bear me out. 
That he who has thy heart knows not its worth. 
Nor its true value can appreciate. 



46 Act 3 — Scene 4. 



So much is he to drink alone addicted. 

But were it mine, ye gods ! how different I 

1 would devote my lite to its sweet care. 

And no temptation could be strong enough 

To swerve me from so good and great a love, 

So blissful would my happiness e'er be 

In owning such a peerless, priceless treasure. 

J. — I am too sympathetic, Mister Richard, 

To not respect 'one who has love for me. 

But that does argue not that I can love 

One who should me so greatly prize and love. 

Because it is the heart and not the mind. 

That sways with power sweet one's choice in love; 

Besides, I have no heart — no love, to give. 

For they upon another are bestowed , 

And nor his better, nor his equal lives. 

Despite your stories to the contrary. 

R. — Upon mine honor ; aye. upon my oath. 
I never told you any thing but truth, 
Because I could not be untrue to you ; 
For as your friend, I felt it was my duty. 
And loving you with all my heart and soul. 
I could not bear to see your love abused. 
But I do not expect to win your love 
By picturing the faults of some one else. 
But choose to plead mine own intrinsic worth. 
^'()ll"ve l-rnown me long, and know me well, and ]<niiw 
That I embody all the manly virtues. 
And have a name as pure as man's can hv. 
I love you, I adore and worship you. 
Nor time, nor circumstance of any kind. 
Can e\'er lessen the immensity 
Of love I hold for you ; and life with you 
Would be a bliss so great, so good, so sweet. 
That I have not the speech it to express. 

J. — It can not be; it is impossilile : 

And if again you ever slander Edward. 
Your friendship even Fll not recognize. 

R. — The more I plead the haughtier she becomes. (Aside.) 
T do not fear, nor am ashamed of truth. 
Nor fear to tell the same, hurt whom it may ; 
And truth, plain truth, can not a slander be. 

J. — There is no need of mincing any words. 
I'll speak as I have found you now to be. 
I say that it is slander, for it is. 

R. — Believe me, for I have convincing proof, 

_^And reyiutation challenge and defy. 

J. — I once had faith in you. but have it lost ; 

For T have leanied from sources good and true, 
That vou not only are of slander guilty. 
But also guilty of attempted murder ! 

R. — Before tMmightv God. I swear 'tis false. 



Act 3 — Scene 4. 



It is a tricky plot to stain my name. 

And prejudice your mind against my suit, 

With the intent that Edward might thus clear 

Himself of sin in your angelic eyes. 

Believe me, for I speak the solid truth. 

My heart's afire with purest love for you. 

Nor will diminish, but grows more intense, 

And less you grant my sweet and loving plea, 

It will my very life itself consume. 

I pray you, please to grant at least some hope? 

J. — Your plea's the very height of impudence ! 
Think you that I could love a slanderer, 
A villain and a cowardly assassin? 
Sir. leave, and leave at once ! 

By heaven, then-aae^e-teaigfeit. 
You shall not live to be another's wife. (R. pretends 
to go, but locks the door and attempts to kill Julia by 
strangling her. — Edward rings door bell, then breaks 
door open — R. escapes as Edward enters.) 

J, _Ooh! Help ! Murder! Oob ! 

E. — I'll kill you yet. 

Julia? Julia.' 

T. —Oh! Edward. 



4S Act 4 — Scene i. 

ACT IV. 



ScKNE 1. — (Home of Judge Christian. — The Judge enters. 

picks up morning paper, and rings bell for Hannah.) 
J. — Hannah, tell Pearl I wish to speak to her. 
H. — Master, Miss Pearl's not here. 
J- — What's that you say — 

Not here? Why, where has she so early gone? 
H. — I do not know. sir. 
J. — That is very queer. 

Did she have breakfast? 
H. — No, sir, not as yet. 

I went up to her room, but she's not there, 

Nor is she anywhere about the house. 
J. — That's very strange, and very strange, indeed. 

Her bed was ruffled, was it not? 
H. — No, Master. 

Her bed was just the same as when I made 

It in the morning. That was what surprised me. 

Then looking 'bout to see if I could find her, i 

I saw her clothes were scattered round the room ; 

And then I wondered where Miss Pearl could be. 

A window being open, I looked out. 

And found a ladder leading to her room. 

Then I imagined many kinds of things 

And looking 'bout again, 1 found a letter. 

And so I thought that it might be for you. 

And it would tell j-ou where that she had gone. 
J. — "Dear Father : 

Do not be surprised when you 

This not do read, for I no mother have. 

Nor e'en a brother now, to comfort me. 

And you are always much away from home. 

I have too lonesome been to happy be. 

1 do not like to marry 'gainst your will. 

l'>iu must obey the dictates of my heart. 

William and I shall very soon return 

To ask you to forgive and bless oiw marriage. 

And humbly pray we may not call in vain. 

Your loving and devoted daughter. 

Pearl." 
H. — Then she has gone and gotten married. Master? 
J^.__;;^es, Hannah. 
H. — O, bless her sweet soul! And just 

To think I've cried my eyes most out about her. 

P>ut I must hurry up and get the house 

In order, 'cause we'll have great times here now. 

(exit PI.) 
J. — My darling daughter — may the Lord her bless ! 



kS) . . a] . 



/ . * 



Act 4 — Scene i. 49 



I have opposed her choice most hitterly. 

With hope tliat she miglit make a better match, 

P>ti_t there's a spirit and a feeHng in 

This note that touches me right to the quick, 

For I myself, most thirty years ago, 

Did steal away my good and loving wife 

Against her parents' wishes, but alas I 

She was too frail and delicate for this life. 

She was my first, my last, and only love. 

My heart and love went out to her so strong 

That I could never love another woman. 

My children since have been my pride and joy. 

And I have lived and worked with the desire 

To raise them right and educate them good. 

And start them out successfully in life. 

But Fate, alas ! has thwarted my designs. 

Killed off my hopes, and left me now to mourn 

The sorrows of a disappointed life. 

My son, — may God yet lead him to the right ! — 

Could not resist the siren of temptation. 

And now my daughter has against my will. 

Eloped and married. Oh! why is it thus? 

Yet. she has not committed any sin ! 
(Pearl and William appear at door and fisten to last seven 

lines, then advance and kneel before the Judge.) 

And too. she may be happy in her choice. 

So I shall take her back with open arms, 

And do for her all that m^- means allow. 

And should she be with any children blest, 

They will a solace to my sorrows be. 

And great delight unto my waning years. 
P. — Father, your blessing, please? 
J. . — Well, well! so soon! 

Ma\- you Ii\-e long and prosper, and lie hanpy. 
P. — O, father. I do love you more than ever ! 
J. — My daughtei-, and you. William, now mv son, 

T want you here to make your home with me. 

I'm getting old. and I need companv. 

It is a tonic that improves the health — 

A stimulant tliat makes us bright and cheerful. 

Therefore, I could not have you live away. 

Make this your home, and it regard your own. 

For vnnrs in future sometime it will he. 

And mav the Lord his blessings shower on you. 
\V. — Father, for this most kind and goodly offer. 

We thank you from the bottom of our hearts. 

And we shall try to be as children good 
.As you have as a father ^hown vourself. 
Should you neglected be in any way. 

Our minds will be in error, — not our hearts. — 
.\n(l we'll endeavor, and our utmost strive. 



50 Act 4 — Scene i. 



, To make your present and declining life 
One of contentment, peace, and happiness. 

J. — Your hand, my son, for like a man you speak. 
Bye-bye, for I must to my office go. 

W. — Father, before you go, I wish to ask 
A favor now from you. 

J- — What is it, William? 

It is not one of money, nor of business ; 
It is more precious far than these could he. 
Yet one that you can very easily grant. 
And by so doing you will much increase 
The happiness and pleasure of us all. 

J. — Why. most assuredly, sir: what -would you have! 

W. — Father, your pardon, please, if I offend? 
I know you are a smart and learned man. 
And withal, too, of motives good and high. 
And I am satisfied you would not harm 
A sparrow even, if you were not right. 
But mortal none can be infallible ; 
And you do know that many guiltless men 
Have been convicted on false evidence. 
And served their time, and suffered death itself. 
Because they had no proof to clear themselves : 
But how much greater must injustice be 
To sentence anyone without, at least. 
Permitting the accused to clear himself? 
I plain do speak, for I am speaking for 
A righteous cause. Acquainted well am I 
With all the facts relating to this case. 
Now, here's a learned, bright, and brilliant man, 
Who has a pure and spotless character, 
A big and manly heart, a genial and 
A jovial nature, proud and handsome, too. 
And much ambitious for his mark to make, 
And who is too strong-minded and self-willed 
To ever be to any vice addicted. 
This manly paragon is none but Fdward, 
Who counts all his acquaintances as friends. 
For they do love him as they would a brother. 
Save one, who is a crafty, sneaking villain. 
Without a single, solitary friend. 
And by exaggerations and black lies 
He's slyly seeking Edward to disgrace 
In the affections of a certain woman. 
This jealous, lying whelp is none but Richard ! 
Father, I swear to God I speak the truth. 
And this, I think, is a most fitting time 
To mend the wrong, and Edward to forgive. 
It will revive his sad and drooping spirits. 
Make glad his heart, and nerve him up to fight 
Life's battles with determined mind and will ; 
.\nd sweet to think, 'twill reunite us all. 



Art 4— Scene r. jt 



And we will feast. mak44^ merry and rejoice 
Over his Jj+s glad return. 

J- My son. it would. 

Indeed, be great injustice to convict 
A person on exparte proof alone : 
But Edward was not wrongly thus adjudged. 
A searching, good inquiry I did make 
About the talk of Edward's double life. 
And all reports did in the main agree ; 
And yet. not feeling fully satisfied 
That he was guilty, I did question him. 
But his replies, and actions were evasive. 
Which was itself good proof that he was guilty. 
For truth requires equivocation not, 
But dares to stand on its own force and strength. 
Tf he is innocent, time will it prove. 
Then I shall be the first to take his hand. 
And him forgive, and help him all I can ; 
But till that time arrives, he must not look 
To me for sympathy, or for support. 
Fm very .sorry but I must refuse. 

W. — O, father, ever since our boyhood he 

And I have chums and boon companions been. 
I know him well. In ways he's free, and tries 
"To be a Roman when he is in Rome :" 
But when he said he did not drink, he meant 
That he did not for merely love of it. 
Or as a habit ; yet, among his friends. 
Just to be sociable, he'll take a drink. 
Put never, under any circimistances. 
O'er steps the limits of propriety. 
By liberal views and open-hearted ways. 
He's made a multitude of staunchest friends. 
And confidence and loudest praise has won 
From all those who have ever heard of him ; 
."^ave, as I said before, one single man. 
Who is devoid of principle or honor. 
And who, in telling Edward likes to drink. 
Has magnified a mole-hill to a mountain. 
T would not Richard under oath believe. 
T^m no (ine cmestions the \eracitv 
Of Edward, for he has too mucli good sense 
To tell a lie. or do an act unjust. 
.And too ambitious is. and too proud too. 
To e\er to a beastlv passion yield. 
• His absence here is like a broken chord 
In music and the harmony of our 
Great happiness will never be complete. 
Till he comes back. Let me not plead in vain 
For my poor brother ? 

T. — William, mv dear son. 



52 Act 4 — Scene i. 



Your love for Edward I appreciate, 
(Yet yours cauuot be any more than mine.) 
But Edward must a bitter lesson learn. 
That only can experience instill. 
It is not necessary one should drink 
To make a friend or popular become. 
To drink at all is a sure sign of weakness. 
That people will not fail to quick perceive. 
And one will more respected be. and liked. 
By his abstaining wholly free from drink. 
O, Edward is now toying with a deafmon. 
And less he shakes him off, while now he can. 
It will ere long encircle his whole being. 
And crush and e'er destroy his present hopes, 
\nd till he has become as "horn anew," 
I shall not recognize him as my son. 
P. — Dear father, please forgive poor brother? 
If he is now inclined to worldly be. 
He needs our comfort, and our sympathy. 
It may influence him to now reform ; 
But if he is turned out upon the world. 
Without your help and your encouragement. 
He may become disheartened and discouraged. 
And in despair, he may resort to drink. 
You have forgiven us — please him forgive? 
And God will bless you, father, for yonr mercy. 
J. — Mv daughter, mercy should alone be shown 
When it will any good inspire or do ; 
And we should not permit our sympathies , 
To override our judgment and our reason. 
Those wrongs past cure need but our sympathy. 
But wrongs that can amended be. and healed. 
Require a remedy, or weak or strong. 
As is the case; so, to forgive him now. 
Would be unwise, and injudicious, too. 
He as he sows should reap, and not complain ; 
And till unto himself he true becomes. 
He must not look to me for anv merer, (exit J.) 
Scene it. — (Edward's room in hotel.) 
E. — By hell, live as we will, try as we can. 
We never can avoid sarcastic thrusts. 
Nor slanderous lies of jealous enemies. 
'Tis said misfortunes never singly come, 
.And 'tis a truth that I have learned full well. 
Eor in the very blossom of my life. 
I'm in a sea of trouble, with no help. 
.And waves of disaopointment come so fast. 
The bubbles of mv joy and ripples of 
Aly laughter in the swells of grief are lost; 
Yet I have borne it all with manlv will 
Bui T this morning did receive sucli news 



Act 4 — Scene 2. 



As would the arder cool, and weaken nuich. 

Even a will of steel. My cherislied hope. 

Which I have secretly and fondly nursed. 

Has ruthlessly and crushingly been checked 

By bitter and unfeeling criticism. 

And I much fear I cannot stand the shock. 

Inspired by glory of a lasting fame, 

And written under prospects bright and good. 

My first invention was a great success. 

My second was, alas ! conceived by force. 

Under the clouds of trouble and of want. 

And so has proved to be a dismal failure. 

I feel as would one in a foreign land. 

Who moneyless, and sick, and friendless is. 

And with no home, nor any place to go. 

Ah, I am sufifering tortures of. the damned ! 

And though I've sworn to never drink again, 

I must my mind and spirits raise and ease. 

For this is surely more than I can bear. (Drinks.) 
(Enter William.) 
W.^ — Hey, there! old chum, and how are you today? 
E. — Ah, William, I am very glad to see you. 

And how are you? 
W. — I'm happy as a lark. 

E. — You always were, for nothing worries you. 
W. — Sir, that's the proper way life to enjoy. 

O, what's the use to worry and to fret 

Over misfortunes that. cannot be heloed? 

For fail or win. we all will surely live. 

And while we live, let us life merry make. 
E. — It is an easv thing to eive advice. 

Rut very difficult to f^Jllo\^• it. 

E'en for the giver; hut I must confess. 

That you are an exception to the rule. 
W. — Just simply leave all troubles to themselves. 

Look on the bright side of the present and 

Await the future with a hopeful spirit. 

'Tis very easy when it once is learnt. 

T always thus have lived, and will so live 

T^ut T am happier, sir, today than ever. 
E, — I'm glad to know it, for I have the blues. 

And your good jollity will help to kill them. 

But what's the cause of your great happiness? 
W.— A lady. — lovely, fair, ..nd beautiful ! — 

Has taken me for better or for worse. 
E. — What's that? You mean to say that vou are m.irried' 
W. — Yes sir, I do. From this day on, old boy. 

I'll travel all the ups and downs of life 

In double harness, with a lovelv wife 

To cheer me on to fortune and to fame. 
E. — O come. now. William, do not jest with me: 

I feel to bad to stand much joking now. 



54 Act 4— Scene 2. 



W. — A joke, eh? On mine honor, sir. last night 

I gave myself, and all that I possess. 

Unto the sweetest girl I've ever seen. 
E. — You do not mean it. 

W. — Yes, I mean it all. 

E. — Is that a fact? 
W.— ^ In fact, it is a fact. 

The sweetest fact I ever did. for fact. 
E . — You are so often springing — cracking jokes. 

I cannot think that you are serious. 
W. — But even jokers, now and then, you know. 

Are forced to true relate that which is so. 

As proof, I'll crack a bottle now of wine ; 

A sweeter crack to crack than cracking jokes. 
E. — I'll order it. and drink to your good luck. 

You will forsake us bachelors now. eh? 
W. — Yes, partly, but not altogether yet. 
E. — You will be missed much at the Social Club. 
W. — But I'll be found much at my happy home. 

For it a sweeter pleasure has for me 

Than can be found at any of your clubs. 
E. — It takes the spice, sir, of variety 

To satisfy our pleasures and desires. 

When you have surfeited yourself with love. 

You'll yearn for change — for fun and revelry. 

Just like an old fire-horse, that runs away 

When once he hears the gong and sees the engine. 
W.— Should I feel thus, then I'll attend the Club. 

Because it is not our indulgences. 

But our abuse of them that troubles us, 

Which I fear not, for I'm conservative. 
E. — .Ah, here's our wine : we'll drink to you and yours. 

But first, to whom were you so slyly sold ? 
W. — You could not guess her name in fifty trials. 
E. — No, I think not, because I do not know 

Of any girl to whom you were in love. 
W. — Well, Edward. I have alwavs been your friend. 

But now and henceforth, I'll your brother be. 
E. — What ! do you mean that you and Pearl are married ? 
W. — As tight, sir, as the Lord and law can make us. 
E. — Great heavens, William, I am much surprised. 
W. — Not disagreeably surprised. I hope. 
E. — I should say not. Here. William, take my linnd. 

There's not a man on earth I would prefer. 

Old l)oy. before you for my brother-in-law. 
W. — Well, in the language of the rural gent. 

"Why. them's my sentiments exactly." sir. 
E. — May health, and wealth, and ha])pincss be vours. 

(Both drink.) 
W. — And may your lot in life be none the less. 
(Enter Harrv and Frank.) 



Act 4 — Scene 2. 55 



H. — Ah. there ! ah. tliere ! bdvs. 
F. — Well.' I will declare 

If this is not a most delicious time. 

E. — Hello, hello, boys; you are just in time. 
W. — And so you are. boys, in most proper time. 

Now order up a dozen rounds of wine. 

And all at my expense. (Ed. orders wine.) 

H. — What's that? What's that? 

What is the cause of this hilarity? 
W. — The best we ever had for such a time. 

Boys, as an active member of your Club. 

I have withdrawn my name, however, you 

May place me on your honorary list. 

For I shall not abandon you for good. 

F. — Wh}'. we should mourn. — not celebrate. — old lioy. 
W. — '^ut you do not yet understand. It may 

Surprise you, but I'm now a benedict. 
H. — Well, well ! a benedict — a married man. 
W. — Yes. sir. I'm glad and happy so to say. 

That henceforth, as I sail the sea of life. 

I'll have a wife to safely pilot me: 

And she will steer me in a pleasant course, 

Hecause she is a sweet and lovely woman. ^ , 

IT. — Jehoshophat ! boys, when did this occur? //^ 

W. — Well. sir. last night, when all was ripe and -F+pc;- ' \^J / 

I played the thief, and stole a priceless prize. / 

H. — I never heard before you were in love. 
F. — Nor I. but we will freely drink your wine. 

And wish you all the happiness in life. 

(Waiter enters with wine. Ed. pours out drinks.) 

E. — Poys. come with gracious will, and drink your fill. 

For joy and gayest mirth it will instill. 
H. — May you and yours live long and happy be. 

.And too, beget a dozen little WillianT^. 
W. — Thanks, thanks : I could not hope for better luck. 

"Rut do not count the chickens 'fore they hatch." 

F. — That's so, that's so. for "there is many a -lip." 

In marriage, sir. "betwixt the cup and lip:" 

T^ut may j-our lives be rosy and be fair. 

And lose no time in getting you an heir. 
W. — Your wish is good, but make it not so airy. 

For this is .true, and not a tale that's fairv. 
F. — We'll take your word for it. and hope on ■^lill. 

The tale you will enioy whene'er vou will. 

(All drink.) 

E. — Come, gentlemen, let's take another drink ' 

One onlv takes the dust from out our throats. 
Sav. boys, whom do you think that William married!* 
H. — I can not think, sir. 

F. — I could never guess. 
Y.. — Nor either I could it have ever guessed. 



5^ Act 4— Scene 2. 



But he declares he is my hrotlicr now. 
H. — Well, well! now I am surclj^ much surprised. 

Boys, let us take another drink or two, 

For the surprises do outnumber drinks. 
F- — I'm so astonished, boys, at all this news, 

I need another drink to keep me up. 
H. —But one too many, si^, will pull you down. 
W.— Let your capacities your limits be, ' ' — rf 

Enjoy yourselves and have a merry time. 

E. — Here, health, and wealth, and long life to us all. 

'Tis said there is a time for everything. 

I have so far sufficient trouble had 

To drive a man to drink, but that I'll pass. 

The present reason is itself enough 

To cause us all to drink and jollify. 

So I propose we take anotlier one. 
TI. — Amen, say I. 

F- — And I do second it. 

W. — Boys, I will gladly join you just once more; 

And as you all have wished me much good luck, 

I will reciprocate my compliments. 

In the exuberance of all our joys. 

And in the overflow of all our sorrows. 

It is a common trait of every one. 

And great and sweet relief to all our minds. 

To pour full out out thoughts to faithful friends; 

But greater, sweeter far the solace is. 

To have one whom you can sure trust and love ; 

Who can your pleasures share, and sympathize 

With your misfortunes ; so, boys, take advice. 

And lose no time in getting you a wife, 

Because the greatest treasure man can have 

In this world, is a good, true, loving wife. 

I drink the health and fortune of us all. ( ( ,\11 drink.) 
IT. — There is no doubt a wife's the greatest treasure. 

But less that one has others in good measure, 

No^long he'll have his wife, nor any pleasure. 

W. — What mean you. other treasures or more w'ives? 
H. — To tell the truth, to judge from others' lives. 

The two combined are now the usual thing ; 

But you. of course, are free from such a fling. 

F. — Well, he is only now an amateur, 

T^nt time, as it has others, will him cure. 
Then he will wish he were one of the boys. 
W. — Enough! enough! of all this blustering noise! 
Some one niight think, this silly talk to hear. 
You bovs for marriage had a death-like fear. 
But T do surely know, (yet out of school 
I wish no tales to tell.) if news be true. 
You both have tried -to be just such a fool. 
And your own fates, not mine, are what you rue. 



Act ,4 — Scene 2. 



H. — Well, sir, if I have failed to win a wife, 
I did escape a hot, contentious life, 
So not all failures are without their hiessings. 

W. — But nothing but success can have its dressings. 

H. — 'Tis not success alone, but also marriage. 

That has its dressings served in fullest carriage — 
Dressings both up and down ; and though in fun, 
You will, without a doubt, get many a one. 

W. — Well, any marriage dressing, bad or good. 
Is much to be preferred to bachelorhood. 

F. — When man himself to woman tight doth yoke. 
He soon discovers that it is no joke. 

H. — Though not so spicy, yet that hath some reason. 

F. — Well, all the same, 'tis given in due season. 

W.— Harp on, harp on, while on, boys, you are bent. 
And give your humor reins to your content ; 
'Twas ever thus, and thus 'twill ever be — 
A benedict's a butt for sport and glee : ; 
So crack your jokes, and laugh, and drink your fill. 
To mine and me, and I will pay the bill ; 
But for the present, you must me excuse, 
For I do know a certain lovely one 
Whose heart is beating fast for my return. 

E. — Ah, William, I do wish to speak with you. 

As this is private business, gentlemen. 
You will excuse our whispered con\ersation. 
H. — Most certainly, and also we must go. 
We'll see you gentlemen again tonight, 
.\nd then resume the jolly celebration. 

F. — .^11 right, we'll see you both tonight. Good-l\ve. 
W. — Good-bye, boys. Go and do as I have done. 

H. — You mean as you have been done. Boys, good-bye. 
F. — Good-bye, and don't forget about that heir. 
\V. — .All right, and see that you as well do fare. 

Yy/-*^-^- '-^'^-^E^t: H. and ¥.) 
E. — I judge that you and rearl must have eloped? 
W. — Yes, to be sure. Yon know that ever since 

The time your father was estranged from you. 

He had a very strong dislike for me. 

I knew that he would not give his consent : 

So we considered all the circumstances, 

.And plotted an elopement. Pearl retired 

Last night quite early to her room; I placed 

.\ ladder to her window, helped her down. 

And then we quickly found a minister. 

Who almost in a twinkling made us one. 

This morning we together did return. 

And asked him for forgiveness. I at first 

Was much inclined that he would not relent. 

But all my doubts and fears were quick dispelled. 

With intermingled joy and tears, he blessed us. 



Act 4 — Soeue 2, 



And then he bade us come and live with him. 

I kindly thanked him. Then he shook my hand. 

And after paying me a compliment. 

He started for his office. 
E. — Did he ask 

About me? 
W. — No : l)Ut when 1 saw he was 

In such good spirits and forgiving mood, 

I took Time by the forelock, so to speak. 

Or rather say, I did advantage take 

To intercede for you. I full explained 

The circumstances of your case to him. 

Berated Richard terribly, and praised 

You to the skies, but it had no effect. 

Still thinking that he might relent, I did 

.A^ppeal again, but all without avail. 

Then Pearl did make a sympathetic plea. 

And l)egged him to have mercy now for you. 

But deaf he was to her as well as me. 
E. — Enough, enough, I wish to know no more ; 

My heart is now with sorrow overloaded. 

And will not stand, I fear, another strain. 
W. — Come, Edward, and cheer up. and be yourself. 

Remember, I shall leave no stone imturned. 

Nor overlook an opportunity. 

To sure convince your father he is wrong. 
E. — I thank you, William. Give my love to Pearl. 

I'll look for you again tonight. Good-bye. 
W. — Good-bye, and do not worry any more. (Exit W.) 
E. — How easy those with light-hearts that can say. 

But when the sea of life does stormy get. 

And every ray of hope is darkened black ? 

By clouds of trouble, and of sorrow, too. 

And naught but deadly breakers line the course. 

The stoutest hearts do fail, nor do they heed 

Advice, but in despair they hurl themselves 

Headlong to death. This world would surely be 

A paradise if we could only live 

On good advice, but it will never keep 

The body and soul together, all alone. 

This wine exhilarates my spirits much. 

Wine has its faults, but has its virtues, too. 

'Twill drown the past, the future goodly cloud. 

And make the oresent naught but gay and cheerful. 

And so, I think I will go out tonight. 

I'll take this, too, along: I may see Richard. 

The coward, I shall never rest in peace 

Till I have had my full revenge on him. (Exit E.) 
Scene hi. — (A street. — Enter Edward, drunk. He staggers 

about, then falls down and goes to sleep. Then enter 

Julia.) 
J. — O, gracious me ! why, there's a man asleep 



Act 4 — Scene 3. 59 



Right in the street. O. he will surely be 
Run over and get killed, and there is not 
A person to be seen. O, gracious me ! 
I wonder if I know him. Oh! my God! 
'Tis Edward! Edward? Edward? I can not 
Awake him. Oh ! Lord, oh ! this must be some 
Of Richard's deadly work. O, Edward, speak 
To me? O, speak to me, please? O^h ! his breath -^ 

Doth smell of wine! Alas! can it now be ^ ^ 

That he is drunk? No. no! he could not get 
So drunk as this ; and yet. he looks not wounded. 
And so. he must be drunk. At last! — at last! 
Have I found out the truth. And yet. though he 
Is surely guilty now. he may have been 
I'^iil innocent before. Not wounded, did 
I say? My darling Edward, please forgive? 
I could not see thy much distracted mind. 
Tliy bleeding heart, and sorrow-burdened soul ! 
TIiou lovest me; aye. thou hast saved my life. 
And if that all the world should thee forsake, 
I'll thee forgive, and thee forever love! 
But I lose time. I must away for help. (Julia puts 
(handkerchief over P^l.'s face. Exit J.) 
( Enter Richard.) 

R. — Cursed be fickle and inconstant Fortune ! 
It leads us to the threshold of sviccess. 
Then throws us back to depths of dark despair. 
No more shall I be charmed with pleasing Hope, 
"For it is a delusion and a snare." 
It comforts us with sweet, fantastic dreams. 
The which, when they are not fulfilled, condenui 
Us to the miseries of a living hell. 
Forever is now Julia lost to me. 
And so my thoughts of happiness are dead. 
Henceforth, life can but helli.sh torture be, 
Rut I shall bear it with a stocial pride. 
Ah, I'm not weak enough to suicide. 
For only maniacs and fools court death; 
T^esides, I have a mission to perform. 
When I to heaven shall have Julia sent. 
And Edward down to hell, then with good grace 
Will I be willing to give up the ghost. 
Hello, what's this?— a man asleep or dead i" 
A victim of soiue robbers, I suppose. 
TTere here! wake up! No, not dead, but dead drunk. 
Tust like an ostrich, he has covered up 
His head, and thinks he's hid himself fr jm view. 
Perchance I know him. Anyway, I'M see. 

(Takes off kerchief.) 
Aha ! 'tis Edward. Ha ! revenge is mine ! 
Ha ! thou base braggart and intemperate fool. 



6o 



Act 4 — Scene 3. 



At last I have thee fast and at my mercy. 
There's not a soul in sight, and yet, methinks 
I must not shoot, for the report will sure 
Arouse some one before I can escape. 

(Puts up gun and draws dagger.) 
This is much better. One good blow and it 
Will all be over. Ha. my evil genius. 
Thou sleepest well, but mayest thou awake 
Soon in the fires of hell. 

(Enter William.) 
W.— Hold on! there: hold! 

You cowardly assassin ! 

R. — O, "tis you. 

I'll kill you first. 

H, — What's that I hear — a gun? 
You murderous dog. I'll settle now with vou. 
(In the fight between Richard and William. Richard 
drops his knife, then draws his gun. William having 
hold of Richard's arms, the gun goes off in tlie air. Thi-''" 
awakens Edward, who shoots at Richard, but kills Wil- 
liam. — Richard makes his escape. j _ ^^^ / 

William, did I shoot you? A^fTie is dying! ~~~ C J cv //^ . 
Forgive me. William ? O ! forgive me. please. 

W. — Yes, ves. Mv love to Pearl. Good-bve. 



Act 5 — Scene i. 6i 



ACT V. 



Scene i. — (Julia's lionic, on bank of Mississippi River. — Julia 

and Edward enter yard, from gate.) 
E. — There is none perfect — every one has faults. 

And he is surely wise who knows his failings. 
J. — But he is wiser, sir, who doth correct them. 
E. — Not always much the wiser, but the stronger. 
J. — Then Edward, you are very w^eak indeed. 

For you do know your faults, but will not mend them. 
E. — Now Julia, we on earth can not be angels ; 

It does our habitation not become. 

We are encompassed round with all temptations. 

And though our wills may ever be so strong. 

Yet we with restless cravings are endowed. 

That we too willingly do .give full swing. 

'Tis not so much a weakness or a fault 

As 'tis an inborn, innate cravin.g for 

A change in the monotony of life. 
J. —Some sports and pastimes are. I know, all right. 

But there's no sense, no reason one should drink. 

And that one should persist in doing so. 

Is sure beyond the pales of sense and reason. 
E. — Think you that ever any person lived. 

Who was, to some one passion, not a slave? 

With neither thought nor action to extreme? 
J. — ^V). stich perfection we do not expect. 

We all our foibles and our follies have. 

These are but traits of nature ; but we need 

Not disobey the laws of nature, nor 

Morality, in order to be happy. 
E. — That sounds so well to those who do not have 

To wenther through the storms, and ups and downs. 

The trials and vicissitudes of life. 

And more especially so to the women ; 

Rut woman has no freedom now like man. 

Nor can so many bad temptations meet. 

We men must have an eye unto the windward. 

Under the guise of sociability. 

We often drink to further on some end. 

.Some times, of course, too freely we indidge. 

But that's no evidence that one's a drunkard. 
J . — But any man who does get drunk, sir. is 

A drunkard, and no drunkard, good or bad. 

Is worthy of the least respect. much_ less 

'riip 1nvr> nnd trn*^ dovotio" of o T'-ifo. 

E. — Show me a man who has a love for drink. 
.\nd vou will find he has a noble heart, 
And is most sensitive to every thought. 



62 Act 5 — Scene i. 



And an expression has for every feeling. 
And as life's varions scenes do on him play. 
So are his moods and spirits always swayed ; 
Then show a man who has no love for drink. 
And you will find that he is like a statue. 
And is to all affections cold and dumb. 
And has no heart, and is to sympathy dead. 
And loves none but himself — himself alone. 

J. — I ask you which it is to better be, 

A temperate man, or an intemperate man ? 

E. — That all depends upon the circumstances. 
And the environments that one is placed in. 
In some positions, to successful be, 
It is most necessary one should drink : 
Tn others, 'tis a needless thing to do ; 
Not only so. but 'tis a hindrance great. 

J- — Sir, would you sell your honor, and your name. 
Your soul! for money? If you would, then be 
.\ drunkard, but if not, then be a man — 
A gentleman — a man amongst good men. 

E. — A man amongst good men! That's what I claim 
To be, and nothing else. I'm not a drunkard. 
Nor even an habitual, constant drinker. 
Nor yet a cold, reserved teetotaler. 
I'm not a narrow-minded, selfish bigot, 
Who every one to his belief would force. 
And all his modes and ways of living, too; 
Nor a conceited, sneering infidel. 
Who looks on those of good, religions faith, 
As hypocrits or suoerstitious fools. 
I'm not a wasteful or a foolish snendthrift. 
Nor yet a parsimonious, crabbed man. 
No, no ! I do not hold to an extreme. 
Rut take the middle and unbiased course. 
And willing am. that every one should have 
The right to so believe, and live, as makes 
One happy and contented, and with all 
The liberty that's possible to have. 

J. — Yes, your ideas of life are very good, 

But you can not a middle course maintain 
In these intemperate times ; for if you drink. 
Then you must ever be right in the swim, 
Else it were better not to drink at all ; 
Bitt any man who does a pleasure find 
Under the power of delusive drink. 
Will interest in all other pleasures lose. 
Neglect his business; aye, much more than all. 
If he should have a wife, he'll surely fail 
To give her the attention, care, and love. 
That's due her. and of right she should exper*'. 

E. — Yes, your ideas are good and proper, too, , 



Act 5— Sceue i. 63 



That is, if the millenium were now here. 
But they will never suit nor harmonize 
With the existing and prevailing times. 
A man too good is as much out of tune 
As one too bad, but woman look s for man 
To be a being that's ideal. You might 
As well look for an -angel down in hell ! 

J. — I ask no more than what a man can be — 
Just honest, upright, temperate and devoted. 
And such a man would be a god to me. 
Whom I would love and serve with all my heart; 
But I'll not be so foolish and so blind. 
To ever mar the happiness of my life. 
By marrying a man who will get drunk. 
No, no! for it would be. if I may say. 
Like living with a devil up in heaven ! 

F- — Then you will certainly die an old maid. 
For surely, I have yet to see the man. 
Under conditions suitable, good and safe. 
Who would not fall for woman, or for wine. 

J. — Then in your pledges, I can have no faith. 

If you will break your oath before your marriage. 
You will most surely do the the same thereafter. 
If you're so weak as now to fall for drink. 
When tired of me, you'll fall for other women. 

E. — You know that supposition is not truth ; 
Pesides, it is a foolish thing to do. 
To either borrow or conjecture trouble. 
When we should only "happiness expect. 
Aud as for my becoming tired of you. 
Why that, indeed, would be a miracle, Julia. 
A miracle would be an infraction of 
A law of nature, which will never be. 
Hut it were just as possible as it were 
That I could ever he untrue to you. 

J. — You always thus declared you did not drink. 
Rut I now know you do not only drink, 
But that you are accustomed so to do ; 
Then how can I have further faith in von? 

K. — I'll tell you how: Regard me simply as 
.\ man. and not a being as divine : 
A man, too, of the world, with worldly passions, 
.And just the same as most men do possess; 
A man of faults, but one of virtues, too : 
Then all my qualities compare and weigh. 
And you will find, to quote your words, that I'm 
.\ man amongst good men — a gentleman ; 
And though I may have slipped a time or two. 
^'et I'm endowed with mind and will so strong. 
And aided by a love for you so great. 
That it were an impossible act for me 
'i"o e'er get drunk or break mv marriage vow. 



64 Act 5 — Sceue i. 



J. — 'Tis said a tree is best known by its fruit. 

Therefore a man is best known by his actions. 

And it is also said, in plainest truth. 

That actions speak much louder than do words. 

Therefore, your promises can have no value. 
E. — There be those who .such habits do acquire. 

That thev no power have to shake them off. 

I fortunately have no one of these. 

My greatest fault is but a social drink. 

And by some persons that's not deemed a fault. 

Yet still, you seem to lose your faith in me. 

If so, then you have also lost your love. 
J. — I can forgive your failings in the past. 

Rut will not tolerate them in the future. 

For I cannot keep faith when faith's not ktpt. 

Nor love when love is not appreciated. 
E. — 'Twill do no good to quarrel any more: 

I am just what I am, nor do else claim 

To be. I do believe in liberty — 

Full liberty of thought and also action. 

T can restrain — control my appetites. 

^ut cannot change my nature in the least. 

Nor would I if I could. Fll not be false. 

Lest it may prove a bar unto our bliss. 

If this will not you suit, I can no more. 
J. — Rut liberty, like drink, can be abused. 

And the abuse of anything's a crime. 

Vou always are so ready to declare 

Your boundless love. I'll bring vou to the test : 

'Twixt drink and me. now whicli. ':ir. will you choose? 
E. — T would do anything that's sensible. — 

Even meet death, if it were for your good ; 

Rut I'll not any foolish pledges make. 

That may be used as texts for future discord. 

T will be honest, and I will be true : 

I'll do mv best to make your life a heaven! 

And more than that you should not wish to ask. 
J. — But you have not been honest, nor been true. 

At first, you met these charges with denial. 
' And then acknowledgement, and now defiance. 

Your happiness is not worth more than mine. 

Nor can your independence dearer be. 

If you are not now willing to leave off 

Vour vices and your drinking, sir. for me. 

'''hen I must say, though death could not be worse. 

Henceforth, we must to each as strangers be. 
E. — T have no vices, habits, wpvs or tnstes. 

That unbecome a man of liberal mind 

The cause of this contention's not with me. 
Rut lies within vourself — yourself alone. 

The fact — the truth is. you are too religious. 

Too ultra-puritanical in your views. 



Act 5 — Scene i. 65 



But yet, your virtues are so great, so man}-, 
That I've not only not found any fault. 
But looked on you as being but an angel. 
Still, if you wish an end unto our love. 
Then be it as you will. 
J-. — Sir. I have spoken. 

E. — All right, then Julia; but before I go, 

I wish to speak a parting word or two : 

My life so far has been unfortunate. 

Yet I'll not burden you now with my woes. 

But through my failures and my troubles all, 

I have undaunted and mishaken passed. 

So strengthened and encouraged by j'our love. 

It has the only beacon been of hope 

That's kept me from the depths of dark despair. 

And lighted up my soul with dreams of bliss. 

But with the loss of it, will I be lost, 

^Vithout a hope, or love, or happiness. 

I've often seen yon wild with ecstacy 

Over the beauties of "The Key to Bliss." 

Should ever you peruse that book again. 

And feel that you would like to know the author. 

Then think of me. Good-bye. Again good-bye. ( Exit E.) 
J. — Upon my soul ! I do believe he's gone ! 

O. Edward? Edward? Oh! what shall I do? 

T have exhausted every means, within 

My power now, to break him off from drink. 

And all in vain; and still, to save my life. 

I can not give him up. And yet, methinks 

He does not love me. No ! he can not love me. 

Else he would never leave me here like this. 

O. God ! my heart is broken past repair ! 

Heaven! have mercy! I shall drown myself. 

(Julia jumps in river.) 
Scene ii. — (A street, late at night. — Enter Henry, Frank and 
Dave, singing.) 

We won't go home till morning. 

We won't go home till morning. 

We won't go home till morning ! 

(Frank dwells on last word.) 
H. — Here, here! Frank, here, why don't you keep the tw««?__ 

F. — Well, give it me, and I will keep it, sir. 

And all else, too, that I can get a hold of. 
H. — Come on. once more ; now all together, boys : 

We won't go home till morning. 

We won't go home till morning. 
We won't go home till morning. (Frank dwells.) 

IT. and D. — Till daylight does appear. 
F. — because we're 'fraid to go there. 
H. — O. fiiddlestkks ! why don't you get the time? 
F. —That's just what I don't watit to get — is time. 
D. — Your singing, sir, is worse than an old cat's. 



66 Act 5 — Scene 2. 



When playing Romeo. 
F. — You're right, old l^oy ; 

But drink, like love, will make a dummy sing. 

And make him act a silly fool as well. 
H. — Boys, you are in no hurry to go home; 

Let's get another drink. 
D. — No, Henry, no ; 

I have sufficient drink, and some to spare. 
F. — Another drink, eh? Do you want to drown me? 
H. — One more won't hurt you, boys. Come on ! Come on ! 
D. — No, no, no more ; I can not now walk straight. 
F. — Walk straight? Gee whiz! I wish that I could see straight 
H. — Then take some seltzer; it will sober you. 
D. — No, no. no seltzer, sir, nor any drinks. 

We have had drinks and fun galore tonight. 

I think 'twere better we should now go home. 
F. — And so do I ; that is, if we can get there. 
}-4.— <*, boys, come on and take another drirk? 
D. — O, you don't want a drink ; you've got enough. 
F. - — Enough! W^ell, if you haven't, you ought to have. 

By jingo, you have drunk enough to make 

A dummy Indian drunk. 
H. — Yes, I have had 

Enough to make me drunk, but somehow. l)t>ys. 

It does not now affect me like it used to. 
D. — You ought to have a stomach like a camel. 

Then you could just fill up your reservoir. 

And take a drink as often as you liked. 
F. — That joke is like the last drink that we took — 

Too strong to stomach. 
H. — Never mind vour jokes. 

Come on and have a drink ! Come on ! Come on ! 

Another drink would fix me up just right. 
D. — Another drink would fix me down just right. 
F. — Look here ! you think I want to get^^runk ? 
H. — No, but you wish to have some fun. don't you 
F. — Well. I've as much as I can carry now. 
H. — You cannot get too much of a good thing. 
F. — What do you call a good thing? 

H. — Why, a drink. 

F. — Then T have had too much, sir, of a good 

Thing many times. Why, I have had so much 

I could not hold it up, or hold it down. 
H. — O. boys, come on ! I like good company. 

Take something; take a seltzer or cigar. 

Just to be sociable ! Come on ! Come on ! 
D. — C). talk no more of drinking or of smoking. 

I know when I've enough of a good thing. 
F. — And so do I. and how to keep it, too. 

Now one drink in the stomach, boys, is worth 

Two out, or up: and when you get a good thing. 

You must not throw it up — I mean, away. 



1^-' 



LofC. 



Act 5 — Scene 2. 67 



D. — That's right: this jag's too good a thing to lose. 

H. — Then why not keep it up if it's so good? 

D. — I will be lucky if I keep it down. 

H. — We've had so far a good time, but I think 

We might as well, boys, make a night of it. 
D. — I'd like to, boys, but I am all tired out. 

We started out too fast — too brisk a gait. 

The fast soon fail, and I am failing fast. 

I'm sleepy, and I think I'll go to bed. 
F. — I think so, too. If you had drunk as much 

As I, you would not want another drink ; 

Why, you would want to sleep, and you would sleep. 

Sir, longer than old Rip Van Winkle did. 
H. — All right then, boys, but I am going now 

To have a jolly time, and by myself. 
D. — O, Henry, 'tis too late, now, tis too late. 
F. —Yes, 'tis too late for us to get ^ drvmk^ . - 
H. — Hellow. boys, here comes Edward — in his cups. 
D. — You mean his cups in him. 
F. — 'Tis all the same ; 

Betwi.xt the two, he's cupped a jagged jag. 
H. — He surely has, to judge him from his walk. 
D. — He has not any of the best of me. 
F. — No, but he might some better liquor have. 

D. — Rut better drink makes not a better drunk. 
H. — Hello, there, Edward, how are you tonight? 

E. — 1 rm a little tuidcr water, boys. 

F. — He means a little under fire-water. 

D. — Do not fire ofi^, sir, an- watery jokes. 

E. • — And how are y<~)U ? 

H. — We're in the same boat. sir. 

F. — Yes, and unless we change our course — our drinks. 

We'll have an epidemic of sea sickness. 

E. — Have you been celebrating, boys, tonight? 
H. — No, we have just been filling in the time. 

F. — Yes, but the time didn't get as full as we. 

H. —You've had a merry time, too. have you not ? 

E. — I'm sorry, sir, to have to say. I've not. 

D. — What! all this jiggling, joggling, jagged jag. 

.\nd yet no fun ? 

I know it sounds quite queer. 

}^ut 'tis a fact. The truth is. I'm too sad. 

And too heart-broken to enjoy myself. 

Vn'i 1-now. that heretofore a drink or two 

Would cheer me up. and quickly change my blue". 

Into the gayest mirth, but not so now. 

Tt seems that it has lost its magic spell. 
H. — That's just the way. sir. it does me affect. 

Except, it seems I can not eet enough. 

F. — You get enough all right. You get so much 

Vnu don't know when vou've got enough. Besides. 
It costs tiu) nuich to keep so full as that. 



68 



Act 5 — Scene 2. 



D. —That's right : they say that whisky's going np. 
^'- — Vou moan, sir. that the price is going up, 

But whisky's going down ; and less you stop 
Your drinking, you will take a tumble, too. 

H. — You boys wouldn't do. I fear, for a long run. 

F- — A one-night stand is good enough for me. 

E. —One night? O. pshaw ! Why. I've been drunk a week 
H. — I'm willing, too, to be. ^^^ — ^___^^ y 

E- — Then. gentlemen/~~~A / ^ 

I move we go some place and get a drink. 
H. — I second, boys, the motion. Is it carried? 
D. — I'll leave it all to Frank. Now what's he say? 

F. — Well, my capacity is filled up now ; 

However, boys, a good old proverb says, 
Whatever you attempt, why do it well. 
And, so I think we might just keep it up. 
Providing we can keep ourselves well up. 

E. — Then let's proceed, for I am dry and thirsty. 

H. — Hold on, boys, who are they now coming here? 

D. — It is so dark. I can't distinguish them. 

F. — 'Tis not the light ; your eyes are in eclipse. 
H. — Hold on, I think they are .some of the boys. 

E. — I hope so. for the more the merrier. 

H. — They are some of the boys, but not our friends. 

So let's move on. 
E. — Say. Henry, who are they? 

H. — 'Tis Richard, and a couple of his friends. 
E. — Then we will wait, or rather, I shall wait. 

I've watched and waited many limes to see him. 

But he's avoided me. I'll meet him now. 
H. — (\ don't stay here : you'll get in troulile now. 

Come on with us? 
E. If it is Richard, sir, 

That is exactly what I want to do. 
H. — But you are not yourself: you have been drinking. 
E. — I know that I've been drinking, but the thought 

Of seemg him, did sober me at once. 
H. — Don't be so foolish and so stubborn, Edward. 

Postpone this matter to some other time. 
E. — Tf I am stubborn, just remember, sir. 

It is because I've reason so to be. 

The murderous dog, he owes his life to me, 

And there can never be a better time 

For him to pay it. 
H. — " Do not talk like that. 

Come on with us? tomoirow you'll be glad 

Y^ou did so. Hurry, they will soon be here. 
"R. ■ — What ! me to run from him ? No, no ! not Edward. 

Why, I'm beyond a measiu-e now rejoiced. 

To think I have so good a chance to meet him. 

Tf you do wish to go, then go you on. 

But I'll stav here. I'm not afraid of Richard, 



Act 5 — Scene 2, 69 



And all hi.-; friends together — no. not Edward. 
H. — Boys, come and help me stop this trouble here ? 
E. — If yon're my friends, stand hack, and keep away, 

And do not interfere with me. You hear? 
( Enter Richard, George and Samuel. ) 
R. — Hello, what's thi.s — a fight? 

S. — . It looks like one. 

G. — Who are they, do you know ? 
R. — No. but that voice 

Sounds very much like Edward's. Let's move on. 
E. — Hold on ! you coward ; hold ! you beastly coward ! 
S. — Who is he talking to? 

G. — I do not know. 

R. — Let us attend to our own business now. 

Come, let's be going. 
E. — Hold ! you coward, hold ! 

Let go, I .say. or I shall hold you as 

Mine enemies. Stand back now, or by hell 

I'll kill the first who interferes with me. 

You sneaking brute, if you do have a spark 

Of manhood o^ n ^•estige e'en of honor. 

In you, come out, then, like a man and show it. 
R. — Now stand your distance, sir. or I will fill 

You full of lead. 
E. — You will, eh? Then come on I 

S. —Sir. hold. 

H. — Here. Edward. 

G. — Richard, put that up. 

E. — Stand back! stand back! on peril of your lives. 

Come out! come out! you dirty, lying villain! 

Come out ! and fight a fair, square fight. Come out ! 

You beastly coward ! Oh ! you vile assassin ! 

You have escaped from me' now several times. 

But thanks to heaven, now I have you cornered, 

.\nd you will have to fight. I offer you 

An honorable fight. Will you accept? 
R. — I wish no fight, but I'll protect myself. 
E. — You will? Come on! you hellish fiend! come on! 

Happen what may. revenge at last is mine ! 

(Both shoot. — Richard is killed.) 

ScENK Tir. — (Prison cell. — Edward asleep — Enter Jailer.) 
J. — Here, here ! wake up ! Get un and eat your breakfast. 

You'll have to go to court. Get up ! get up ! 
E. — Say. officer, give me some liquor, please? 

I am'so nervous I can hardly stand. 
J. — Sir. this is no saloon — it is a jail. 
E. — I do not care if it is hell or heaven ; 

I need some liquor bad. and I must have it. 
J. — \(m must, eh? Well. ?ir. you will be' in heaven. 

Or in some other place, before yon get it. 



70 



Act 5 — Scene 3. 



E. — I can. sir, if I pay for it, can't I? 

J. — No, you cannot : it is against tlie rules. 

E. — Sir, rules or no rules, my condition is 

Now such that I'm compelled to drink sonic liquor. 
J. — I'm sorry sir, for you, but my rules are 

Now such that I'm compelled to keep you from it. 
E. — I must, sir, have some liquor, and that quick. 

Else I shall not be able now to walk. 
J. — The regulations here are very strict. 

And violation means a prompt dismissal. 
E. — If you are not allowed that privilege. 

May I procure some person else who can? 
J. — No. sir. all liquors are prohibited here. 
E. — O, sir. my nerves are sliattered and unstrung. 

My circulation is relaxed and weak. 

But liquor will relieve and strengthen me, 
J. — 'Tis tough, but you will have to grin and l)ear it. 
E. — Is there none else. sir. here, whom I can speak to? 
-'jr^^^Tryes. I'll get a doctor now for you. 

But he'll not give you any liquor, sir. 
H. — Then call me a physician, please, at once? 
J. — All right, but all that you will get, young man. 

Will be some dope — no liquor; not a drop, (exit Jailor.) 
— Oh! horrors still on horrors; if as thus 

To suffer, be not hell, then hell can have 

No fears for me. My nerves are crying out. 

Like millions of loud, suffering voices, for 

Relief; my muscles jerk and twitch, my bones 

Do ache ; my brain is sore and feverish. 

And every little sound seems loud as thunder, 

y\nd racks me with excruciating pain. 

O, for a drink ! My stomach is on fire — 

A fire that water cannot soothe or quench. 

Nor can aught else but liquor — only li(|uor. 
(Enter Doctor and Jailer.) 

-Good morning, Edward. 

Ah, good morning. Doctor. 

Doctor, I need .some liquor very badly. 
Dr. — Take this, sir, it will make you feel much better. 
E. — But now I want some wdiisky — just a drink. 
Dr. — Sir, to be frank, I cannot give you any. 
E. — May I not have a beer to quench my thirst? 
Dr. — No, not at present. Just rest easy now. 

And take these medicines as prescribed, and you 

Will soon be well. I'll call again. Good-bye: 

(^^jt/^Z^-^-^J3^ — C^eft-Dr. and ]^ 
E. — Doctor, good-bye. Ah, just rest easy, eh ! 

I wish I could. He might as well have told 

Me to walk out of here in spite of locks 

And bars, or calm the stormy elements 

With words of magic, as to think I could 



t _^ ^J v^ tJ-^v.^ 



tAA-cX^ <^- 






Act 5— Scene 3. 



Be easy under my rebellious nerves. 

Will doctors never learn to be humane! 

To think- that I'm compelled to suffer now 

The agonies of a thousand bitter deaths, 

That an inhuman rule may not be broken. 

To gratify a doctor's prejudice 

Agair^^ the use of any alcohol. 

Too silly is to even contemplate. 

Even a drink or two would ease my pain. 

And tone my nerves unto a better feeling. 

.\h, if the doctors and the jailers had 

To suffer as their victims mostly do. 

What rapid changes there would be in all 

Their methods and their treatments of the sick. 

O, liberty! sweet, precious liberty! 

Could I have but one momeiit of it now ! 

O, I cannot this any longer stand : 

I must have some relief. By heaven, if 

There be a virtue in this medicine. 

I'll get it. and that soon — or kill or cure. 

(Drinks all liic medicine.) 
(Enter ITcnrv and Jailer.) 
H. — How are you, Edward? 
'^- _ I am very sick. 

I'd feel much better if I had a drink. 

I'ut I am not permitted here to take one 
Tl. — V.'hy not:' 
r"-- — Well, first it is a prison rule. 

And ib.cn the doctor will it not allow. 

He left me some diluted n:edicine. 

To be in homeopathic doses taken. 

But I just took it all in one big gulp. 
T. — What's that, sir?"— all in one drink, did you say? 
E. — Don't get excited, sir: it will not hurt me. 
) — T'vgc- r;.. it might kill vou. so it might. 
E. — rit.n't worry, sir: it will not.phase me. / , , 

'♦ Ine'-e were any danger m iT7^ir7 

He never would have trusted me alone: 

T^'M I must have some whisky, and that soon. 
H. — I'll get you some 

.1- — Not while that he is here. 

H. — I'll see you wheti you gn from here to court. 
E — Ves. do nlease: th.it will be the proper time. 
H, —Before I go. I'll tell you .some good new^. : 

Vour father has -'Ircady now employed 

Cnnr] rounsel to defend you to the last, 

^ nd he '■= uT^'-itig: en'-th and heaven, too. 

In \'onr behalf so ta'ce good heart and courage, 

^nd ha\e no fear i>'hatever nf the outcome. 
E. — Excuse me. please, but do not speak to me 

My father's name again : he's dead to me, 

I care nor worry, sir. about the future ; 



NOV 12 1900 

Act 5 — Scene 



I have become indifferent to all that. 
Relief from pain is what I now need most. 
And I must have it, and that quickly, to«. 
H. — I will return as soon as possible. 

E. — O, hurry, please, and do not stay too long, . „ / jO -] 

For every second of delay but adds (xp^^-<^ri' "^^^^ J 
Unto my torture. O! for one good drink! '\^ 

Yet I should only suffering now expect. 
For thus does Nature her abuse revenge. 
Father, he says, is coming to my rescue. 
.A.nd so, at last his icy heart has melted. 
I fear that he has waited now too long. 
The time was when, with his influence and help. 
I might have made — but O. I must not think 
Of it. Fm suffering hellish torments now. 
But recollections of my misspent life 
Too^ghjstly are — too sad to entertain. 
^^"^ Upon my life, I do believe I have 
O A chill— I feel .so cold. What's this? What's this? 

The earth itself seems turning round and round ; 
\ weird and ghostly feeling o'er me creeps ; 
I'm getting dizzy, and I cannot see ; 
Ooh! . . my God, and what a hideous monsterl 
.\nd I can not escape. Ooh! Murder! Ooh! 
.A.m I awake, or be I dreaming now. 
Or in a trance, for sure as I do live, 
Methought I saw an ugly, beastly monster, 
.\\\A then methought it sprang and clutched nie. 
And choked, and bit, and tore me limb from limb. 
Yet I am not asleep, nor was I then. 

And still, how like a dream ; ^i^, no, how like „ 

.\ fact it seemed. Great heavenTTTiow I am 
Per.spiring, yet Fm cold and shivering 
.\s if I had-the palsy. What? What's that? 
.\ drink, you say? And who's that talking, eh? 
.4m I on earth, in heaven, or in hell. 
Or in a spirit land,^ — it seems so strange ! 
1 hear sweet music and a thousand voices. 
I see ! them ; yes, I see their airy forms ! 
Ooh! . . but they are devils — devils all ! 
O, look you at their horrid faces ! Look ! 
Oohj. . that horrid monster's here again! 
Ooh? . . Help! Ooh! 'tis killing me! Ooh! Ooh! 
. / 7 (Dies.) 



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